


Guardian

by Teragram



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Bobby Knows, Dead John Winchester, Happy Ending, Human Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Police Officer Castiel, Prostitute Dean, Protective Bobby, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Russian Castiel, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-10-07 05:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10353171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: His father’s death leaves Dean Winchester with a new set of responsibilities, like his little brother, Sammy, and taking down whatever’s killing sex workers in Kansas City. But Dean is broke, Sammy has to eat, and the Impala can’t drive on fumes. So Dean figures he can work the corner to get the cash he needs and find the monster. Castiel Krushnic is fresh from the police academy, and eager to prove himself on his first undercover assignment. Their lives are about to collide.





	1. Chapter 1

His father had been dead for a month, and it was already the longest month of Dean Winchester’s life. He and his little brother, Sammy, had huddled together at the end of a muddy utility road, watching as their father’s body burned in a traditional hunter’s funeral. It took forever to find dry wood in April, but the pyre reduced the chance of him sticking around as a vengeful spirit. John Winchester had been angry enough when he was alive and Dean had zero interest in a ghost that criticized everything he did. So they’d watched the fire and ignored the sweet, cloying smell, and now all they had left of their father were his hunting journal and a 67 Impala with a trunk full of weapons.

Dean had glanced down at where Sammy had turned his head into Dean’s chest. He supposed they were technically orphans now. Sammy was, anyway. Dean wasn’t sure about himself. Could a seventeen year old still be an orphan? Or was he just a guy whose parents were dead?

“What are we gonna do now?” Sammy had asked. He wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands. His baby fat was all gone now and he was looking gangly from his recent growth spurt.

“Same thing we always do,” Dean assured him, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “I’ll hunt things and save people and you keep getting’ good grades.” He ruffled Sammy’s hair. “Nerd.”

“Nerd? Is that really the best you could come up with?” Sam ducked the hand and grabbed a shovel. “Remind me, which one of us is thirteen?” After moving a few shovelfuls of the hard dirt he stopped to wipe the sweat off his neck and glared at Dean. “Are you gonna take a turn on this?”

Dean had leaned back against the Impala and threaded his fingers behind his head. They had forty bucks and enough gas to get the car back to Kansas City. He tried not to panic. Sam needed him strong. So he did what he always did when his life turned to shit. He pretended everything was fine. “Nah, I think I’ll supervise. You need the muscle more’n I do. Those spaghetti arms aren’t gonna win any gun shows.”

They’d buried the ashes and Sam salted the grave, while Dean jotted the GPS coordinates into his own journal. You never knew when that information might come in handy, and if Dean had learned anything since taking over the family business it was that detail hadn’t been John Winchester’s strong point. Take that ghoul business in Lawrence two years back; his father’s journal just said ‘ghoul,’ the coordinates, and the date. Sure, the earlier ghoul entry had been better—what they ate, where they lived, how to kill them—but by comparison, Dean’s journal was a friggin’ encyclopedia. That salt-n-burn in Topeka last week was routine, but he’d still recorded names, dates, contacts, and the procedures he’d followed. If folks at that tire plant saw a ghost again it sure wasn’t gonna be Lily Ledbetter. Dean closed his journal and put it away. He wasn’t sure who’d inherit it since Sammy was probably destined for some fancy university. Maybe it would join the dusty tomes in their Uncle Bobby’s collection. But however it shook out, nobody was gonna call Dean Winchester a slacker when it came to record-keeping.

Dean checked the trunk of the Impala, going over his supplies. He needed to re-up on salt and cartridges and those weren’t things he could shoplift, so he’d need to buy them. It was his responsibility now to handle any jobs that came their way on top of taking care of Sammy. Hunting would be the easy part. He’d been doing salt and burns since he was ten and helping his dad kill vamps since he was Sammy’s age. The hard part was gonna be avoiding child services ‘til he turned eighteen and could be Sammy’s legal guardian. Until then, the kid needed to show up at school clean, fed, and prepared for class so nobody asked nosy questions. Dean thanked his lucky stars that Sammy got good grades and only had a few weeks before he was free for the summer. If he could just hold everything together until then, they’d be golden.

“Are we really going to live at Bobby’s?” Sam asked as Dean drove him to school the next day.

“Yep. Soon as you’re done school we’ll hightail it to Sioux Falls.” Dean had heard that home was the place where, when you went, they had to take you in. He and Sammy would be welcome at Bobby’s. John Winchester was their father, but sometimes Dean thought he’d like to call Bobby ‘dad.’ He kept mushy crap like that to himself.

“What’ll we do there?” Sammy asked, looking out the window.

“I’ll keep doin’ what I do,” Dean said, turning right on red, “and we’ll have a fun summer helping Bobby around the salvage yard. Maybe teach you to drive on one of those junkers he’s got.”

Sammy looked at him, his eyes bright and hopeful. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. It’s how I learned.” Dean restrained a smirk. Their dad used to drop him and Sammy off at Bobby’s all the time. Sam had been too young, but Dean had been old enough to help Bobby with the cars. He’d loved the grease and the feeling of fixing something with his hands. He hoped the hunting work would be slow enough that he could talk Bobby into letting him work a restoration job or two. If they could get some of those old wrecks running they could sell them for good money.

Until then, Dean needed cash to keep them off the radar here in Kansas City. Their father had raised them in motels, but without his income they couldn’t afford even the cheapest room. They camped in the Impala and washed in gas station bathrooms while Dean tasked Sammy with looking up properties repossessed for back taxes. Dean could strategize okay, but the kid was a whiz at research. They needed a place that’d been on the auction block for over a year without any takers. Armed with a list printed at the library, they toured each site, shimmying through basement windows and assessing the places for security, ease of heating, and possibilities for bypassing the water meter. They settled on an old farmhouse. A truck carrying heating oil had lost a tire and its payload, spilling into the field and ruining the land for farming. It was isolated and undesirable; exactly what they needed. They moved in, parking the Impala around back, out of sight.

“Home sweet home,” Dean said. “At least for now.” The place smelled musty and there were bats living in the attic, but Dean didn’t mind. It would get them through the next few weeks and squatters didn’t pay rent.

“It’s not nearly as bad as that motel in Tulsa dad ditched us at for two weeks,” Sammy pointed out. He’d been bad-mouthing their father a lot since the funeral. Dean figured it was the kid’s way of grieving. He let it go.

A few minutes with a screwdriver rigged the rusty water meter so it wouldn’t record their use. Dean hooked into the power grid using steps Sammy found online during one of his study periods at school. It wasn’t as nice as a good motel, but it wasn’t half bad. They spread their sleeping bags on the floor and Dean washed their clothes in a deep porcelain sink in the kitchen. But shelter and clean clothes didn’t fill their bellies, and Dean needed cash if they were gonna eat.

He thought about the old hippie who hung out around the community center on Wabash, selling weed and whatnot. Everybody called him Hippie Chong. Maybe he could do something like that. Of course he’d need a supply to sell, and that would be a substantial outlay. And there might be territorial issues. People could get violent when it came to drug turf, even old Hippie Chong. Still, it might be worth looking into.

Dean hovered over an ancient hotplate and stirred the last of their milk into a pot of discount mac’n’cheese. He liked the bright orange of the powdered cheese. It was familiar and comforting.

“Mmmmm. Smells good,” Sammy said, looking over his shoulder. The kid was always hungry. And he needed a haircut.

“Good. Grab some bowls.” Dean shut off the burner and Sammy set two plastic bowls on the counter and pulled out a handful of newspaper clipping.

“So listen,” he said, “I’ve been following the news and I think I might have found a hunt.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s eyebrows rose. “This anything like the time you wanted to interrogate Santa ‘bout why we got stiffed for toys every year?”

Sammy pushed his hair out of his face. “Gimmie a break, Dean. I was six.”

“Okay, okay.” Dean set the pot down and waved a hand, giving his brother the floor. “Let’s hear what you got.”

“Three murders so far. All women in the sex trade.” He held the handful of newsprint out to Dean, looking anxious and excited to be helpful.

Dean took the clippings and quickly skimmed through them. The bodies had been pulled from the Missouri river. One victim was last seen in the Wabash and Amie area and two were known to frequent Independence Avenue.

“Sex trade, huh?” Dean said. “You know what that is?”

Sammy rolled his eyes. “I’m not a kid, Dean. I know what sex is.”

“Okay, Hugh Heffner.” Dean poured the pasta into the bowls, making sure to give Sam two thirds of the box. It was a little gluey, but it’d do. He glanced back at the clippings. The stories had described the bodies as ‘mutilated’ but hadn’t gone into detail. Dean sighed. Whatever happened to investigative journalism?

“Sounds too messy to be a vamp,” Dean said, handing his brother a bowl of pasta. “You thinking werewolf?”

Sammy shook his shaggy head and started eating with a plastic fork. “No connection to the full moon. This might be something we haven’t seen before.”

Dean smirked. As if Sammy had seen anything supernatural. Sure, he’d read their father’s journals, but reading about it and trying not to piss yourself when it revealed its fangs or what-have-you was a whole different ballgame.

“I’ll look into it. But uh, good job finding it.” Dean slipped the clippings into his hunting journal and leaned against the counter. He was trying to use more positive reinforcement than their father had, but he wasn’t exactly crazy about Sammy taking an interest in hunting. He was supposed to keep the kid safe and taking down vamps and ghosts and witches and whatnot was a lot of stuff, but safe wasn’t one of them. Still, research was low risk.

“You ready for that math test tomorrow?”

Sammy nodded, shoveling the warm food into his mouth. “It’s exponents. Nothing too difficult. I studied all day yesterday.”

“Glad to hear it.” Exponents sounded plenty difficult to Dean. Almost as hard as finding a job he could leave at a moment’s notice if a hunt came up, or someone willing to hire a high school drop-out. In another year, if he bulked up a bit, he could pass for older, maybe get a job at a garage, but until then he needed something. Anything. He finished his pasta, enjoying the warmth in his stomach. If he wanted more evenings like this he needed cash. He looked at the clippings again. Sex workers, huh? Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone.

* * *

 

Sam unfolded himself from his desk and loped to the front of the class to pass in his math test. He was a few minutes early, but he knew he’d aced it, and exponents were not on his mind as he headed for his locker. As the slap of his sneakers echoed in the empty halls Sam felt guilt burning a hole in his gut.

He was a constant suck on Dean’s financial resources. There was no doubt about it. He was outgrowing his clothes and had started borrowing from his brother’s duffel. His shoes had worn through and every day it rained he got wet socks unless he lined his shoes with plastic bags. He’d been scrounging paper and pens for school where he could, passing in one assignment on stationary from a Holiday Inn. That resulted in a chat with his English teacher and Sam made up a story about his dad’s recent layoff on the spot. If this kept up he was definitely going to come under scrutiny, and they couldn’t have that.

He’d looked for after-school work but no place even wanted to see him until he’d turned fourteen, which was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if being a year older would make him smarter or more mature. He’d looked into doing farm work, which seemed to be a loophole in the child labor laws, but they wanted written parental consent, and Dean was adamant that Sam should focus on school. His homeroom teacher, Mrs. Kripke, paid him $20 a week to do chores around the classroom, which helped cover lunches. He didn’t want to explain to Dean that the peanut butter sandwiches he sent him to school with were gone by first period. A guy had to eat.

The bell rang and Sam opened his locker and swapped out his math books for Edgar Allan Poe’s _The Raven and Other Poems_. English was next and he needed to look alert, prepared, and cared for by living parents. He was good at maintaining the façade. He’d been doing it for years; pretending it was fine when their father forgot to leave money and they had to swipe food from convenience stores. Doing his homework by a utility pole light when they slept in the Impala. Making up excuses about why his father couldn’t make it to parent teacher night again. Of all his skills, bullshitting people was right up there. Sam Winchester, showman extraordinaire.

Since he couldn’t contribute financially, Sam tried to be helpful on the hunting front. He was glad Dean had been receptive to his theory about the murdered women. He’d known he was onto something there. He could feel it in his gut. He just wished he could do more. And then he remembered that Gwen Campbell was in his English class and that her dad worked for the Kansas City Police.

Sam usually sat up front, but today he slipped into a seat beside the skinny brunette near the back. He turned in his seat and lowered his voice.

“Hey Gwen. Are you interested in a little Truth of Dare over lunch?”

* * *

 

As Officer Castiel Krushnic entered the office of KCPD Captain Zachariah, he was overcome with the scent of mid-range cigars, greasy takeout, and spray breath freshener. He noted one wall of the office was filled with photos of the Captain shaking hands with dignitaries.

“Is that the mayor?” Castiel knew it was. He’d researched the city before the move to Kansas City.

Captain Zachariah smiled. “Yes.” His face brightened and he pointed to an adjacent photo. “And this is me with the Board of Commissioners.” He waved toward the uncomfortable government-issue chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

Castiel sat, his back rigid and his face alert. He’d been hired straight out of the Academy for some type of undercover assignment. The other officers were calling him “Jump Street,” but he didn’t mind. The nickname was designed to belittle him but if he stayed friendly it would change into acceptance soon enough. Information like this was acquired easily when one read psychology textbooks, and Castiel liked information.

Captain Zachariah lowered himself into a broad leather office chair. “Sheriff Hanscum speaks highly of you.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint.” Zachariah probably thought he meant disappoint him, but he was thinking of Donna Hanscum and her friendly dimpled face. She had been his favorite instructor at the Academy; encouraging, but quick to reprimand students who had tried to make fun of his name or background. He wanted to live up to her expectations. She had a birthday coming up, he remembered. He should send a card.

The Captain’s round tan head shone under the fluorescent lights. “Did Hanscum tell you why you’re here?”

“Just that it was undercover.” He almost smiled, remembering how he’d stared at the paper detailing the placement and asked if she really thought he could do it.

“You betcha!” She’d said, grinning widely. “That thing you got? Reading people in just a few seconds? That’ll come in real handy undercover.” Castiel looked up at Captain Zachariah. He’d researched him, too. He was no Donna Hanscum, but if his mother had taught him anything it was that you made the best of what you had.

The Captain sighed. “As you may be aware, I’ve got three homicides in the Northeast district. All whores.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Castiel. “I need you to worm your way into the Northeast’s seedy underbelly. No arrests for solicitation. Save that for when the major’s up for re-election.” He waved a hand. “Just clear the homicides. Easy peasy!”

Castiel nodded, thinking about strategy. He’d need to establish himself in the community and identify its gatekeepers—people who decided who got accepted in and who was an outsider. “I’ll do my best.”

“Well, do it quickly. The Courier has Bela Talbot covering the story.” The shadowy circles under his eyes seemed to get even darker. “Need I say more?”

Castiel frowned. “I don’t know Miss Talbot’s work.”

“Oh right.” The Captain sneered. “You’re from Illinois, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Castiel took in a calming breath and let it out through his nose. If the Captain didn’t like his being from Illinois then he certainly wasn’t about to share any of the more personal details of his life.

“Well. No matter. We needed a fresh face for this operation and yours will have to do. Talbot’s got the heart of a carrion vulture, and bad press can tank a career. So find me my killer before he carves up anyone important, okay?” Zachariah set a wad of cash on the mock cherry wood desk and slapped a cash requisition form next to it. “Sign here. Ingratiate yourself with the hookers and the pimps. Throw some money around. Get them talking.” Zachariah looked hard at him, frowning. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

The captain grunted. “Jesus. I was on my second divorce before you were even born. Tell me I don’t have to explain how prostitution works?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, Captain, you do not.” He still remembered his mother, kissing him on the head and murmuring, _я люблю тебя, заичик_ [I love you, bunny] before she headed out to meet a client. She’d probably hate that he remembered that. She’d prefer if his memories started once they’d moved in with Michael, and became a respectable family, but Castiel was fine with his memories as they were.

Zachariah showed his even white teeth. “Thank God for small miracles. Now in the good old days a cop could sleep with a whore and nobody batted an eye. But these are politically correct times. So no hank-panky with the prozzies. Got it?”

Castiel nodded firmly. “I understand, Captain. Academy training on operations involving sex work was very specific.”

“Good. And as my predecessor used to say,” He put a hand against his mouth as if confiding a secret, “If you can’t be good, be careful!” He checked a sheaf of papers on his desk. “Krushnic. That, Russian?” The Captain frowned at him as if he’d noticed something unpleasant. Castiel glanced at his neat suit to check whether his fly was open.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well you talk American just fine, so at least there’s that.”

 _Ублюдок_! [Bastard!] The word came as if it had been spit into Castiel’s mind, probably from the part of his brain that remembered his mother shouting it at someone on the phone. A smile ghosted across his face.

The Captain waved a hand, clearly a dismissal. “Connect with Sergeant Turner. Desk by the coffee maker. He’ll set you up with a cover.”

Castiel stood, his back rigid. “Thank-you, Captain. I appreciate this opportunity.”

Zacharia smirked. “Of course you do. Just don’t screw it up.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean lay on top of his sleeping bag and stared at the mildewed ceiling of the farmhouse. He could do this. He’d slept with more than a few women, and he liked to think he’d provided satisfaction. Going with a guy couldn’t be all that different, could it? Sex was a practical skill and he’d always picked those up pretty fast. It couldn’t be much different from driving a car with a manual transmission. Sure, the sex wouldn’t be soft, or slow, or romantic. But he could hit the clutch and shift gears if he had to. And it was looking like he was gonna have to. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d be dating anybody. It was just sex. With men. Possibly a lot of men.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Hell, if worse came to worst he’d close his eyes and think of Home Improvement-era Pamela Anderson. She’d gotten him through a lot.

* * *

 

Officer Castiel Krushnic stood by Sergeant Rufus Turner’s desk as the grouchy looking man arrived carrying a long stack of files, a pastry box wedged under his chin.

“Take the box, kid. Take the box.” Castiel did so and Sergeant Turner dropped the heavy files onto the desk. It was messy, crowded with reports, inter-office mail envelopes, firearms training forms, and a white KCPD coffee mug holding a handful of pens and a small American flag. Castiel noted the lack of photos. There was a bowling trophy for a police league. Sergeant Turner was his job. Castiel felt relieved; they would get along fine.

Turner’s eyebrows furrowed at him. “You didn’t break my rugelach, did you?”

Castiel looked inside the box, where a dozen delicate pastries lay nestled on wax paper.

“No, Sir. They’re safe.”

“Good. I don’t need the heartbreak this morning. My pacemaker can’t spare the juice.” He looked around. “Grab one of them seats and we’ll get you started.” He sorted quickly through the stack of files he’d brought in and pulled out a handful of folders. Castiel wheeled over a wooden chair and just as he sat Turner slapped him in the chest with the reports.

“Three women so far,” Turner said. “Rachel Nave, Cecily Waldroff, and Casey Gill. All last seen working a strip in the Northeast. Bodies found in the Missouri. We’ve had guys on it since the get-go, but nobody saw nothin’!”

Castiel opened the first autopsy report, his attention focused now. “Anything to suggest it was the same killer?”

“You could say that.” Sergeant Turner waited until Castiel read the part about tooth marks on the victim’s faces and missing limbs, and the ME’s theory that the injuries indicated cannibalism.

Castiel let out a breath, long and slow.

“I was not expecting that.” He noted there was also reference to matching injuries across victims. Something thick and conical, like an animal horn. “So with the penetrative weapon and the women’s occupations are we assuming there’s a sexual motive?”

Rufus leaned back and opened his hands. “You tell me, Kid Columbo. What do you see?”

Castiel skimmed through one file and turned to the next. “All three women worked within a four block radius. Local perp or easy hunting ground, maybe. We should check parking tickets for the area for anyone doing stakeouts or leaving their car too long.”

Turner nodded. “It’s how NYPD nailed Son of Sam.”

Castiel closed the file and looked up at Turner. “So what’s my cover?”

“We figured you’d pose as a John. Got an ID for you as Jimmy Novak and an apartment in the radius. The Captain give you money?”

Castiel nodded.

“Good. We’ll set you up with a vehicle and then you get out there and start making friends.” He scratched at his mustache. “Fresh face like you? Those ladies are gonna eat you up.”

Castiel took the autopsy, case reports and interview summaries and stacked them. “Whom do I see for parking tickets?”

“You gonna do that now?” He glanced at the time on his computer monitor. “It’s almost six. You got nobody waiting on you at home?”

“No, I don’t.” His mother was safe and comfortable in the Connor Beverly Behavioral Medicine Center in Ohio. She rarely ever recognized him now, so he supposed that was nearly the same as being alone. And the less he saw of his step-father the happier he’d be.

“You an orphan or something?” Turner’s tone was joking, but Castiel saw more than teasing in his eyes. Concern, maybe? No. A recognition of similarity.

“Pretty much,” Castiel said. “You too, I’m guessing?”

“Could be. You got any pets?”

“Not even a fish.”

Turner snorted and looked gruffly pleased. He walked to the break room and returned with two mugs of coffee. He sat, grabbed one of the pastry boxes, and offered Castiel a rugelach, which he accepted.

As the flaky cinnamon pastry melted sweetly across his tongue, Castiel turned back to the files.

“Guys like you and me, kid,” Turner said, “that’s how this case is gonna get solved.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll call down for those parking records.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Your desk is back by the photocopier. Just move those boxes of toner out the way.”

* * *

 

As he walked up the steps of his rented bungalow Castiel’s eyes burned from reading and he winced when the motion-activated lights came up. He fumbled his key into the lock and went inside. His neighborhood was eerily quiet and he understood why some people got pets or left a radio on just so they’d have something to come home to.

Sergeant Turner, about to head home, had found him watching security feeds from a check-cashing place near where the women had gone missing. He scanned it for people frequenting the area, focusing on bone structure and gait in case someone was disguising their appearance. The video quality was a little iffy, though. There was static and interference, and a few people looked as if they had entirely black eyes.

“You almost done?” Turner asked.

Castiel said, trying to cover a yawn. “This, yes. I’ll also need ATM records. Who do I see to get those?”

“I’ll get on that,” Turner assured him. “You finish this business and get some sleep.”

Now, back at home, he pushed off his shoes and walked to his bedroom in his thin socks. As he stripped off his suit he wondered, was he lonely? Certainly he was alone, but lots of people lived alone.

He didn’t date much, but he’d been busy. At the Academy he’d focused on his training to prove that the socially awkward guy with the foreign name could hold his own against Midwest American boys. And before that he’d been studying to get top marks in school while dealing with his mother’s early onset dementia and his stepfather’s infuriating denial about it. And before that he’d been a child desperately trying to eliminate his accent. He’d never learned how to have friends and his attempts to date hadn’t gone well.

He was just meant to be alone. He undressed, pulling on his old Academy PE uniform before getting into bed and drifting into a restless slumber.

* * *

 

Dean leaned against the rough stucco wall of the community center on Wabash Avenue, gave a nod of hello to Hippy Chong, then turned his attention to the women working the corner. It was just like any other undercover gig, he told himself. Like the time his father took a job in that manufacturing plant to find out who was sacrificing their coworkers to summon a prosperity demon.

He let out a breath, barely visible in the cool air, and studied how the women stood, walked, and dressed. Their clothes were normal, at least. He couldn’t afford to shell out for any fancy hooker gear. He figured out the system quickly. Car shows up, you go somewhere secluded, and get dropped off again when the job is done. It was high risk. It’d be would be easy for a killer—human or supernatural—to subdue their victim for transport to a second location. Dean watched, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, as a short brunette with a switchblade smile climbed into a brown Escalade. When she returned fifteen minutes later he stepped up to her.

“Got a minute?” He hoped the answer was ‘yes.’ The sun was bright but the damp wind was starting to make his ears ache and he couldn’t afford to get sick. Sammy needed him.

She looked him up and down and despite the layers of his t-shirt, flannel, and jacket, Dean felt conscious of his skinny build. “You looking for a date?”

“Looking to trade a cup of coffee for some answers,” he nodded toward a diner where he’d seen the women hang out.

The brunette smiled, slow and easy. “Make it a mocha and you’re on.” She slipped an arm through his and they walked to the diner.

The man behind the counter greeted them with a smile. “Jeez, Meg. Am I getting old or are your dates getting younger?”

“Stow it, Gabriel. This sweet young thing is just buying a lady a drink.” Dean ordered a mocha and a regular coffee and carried the drinks to a table in the corner.

“So what’s your deal?” Meg asked, looking him up and down like she might want to take a bite. “Writing an article for the school paper?”

“Looking to get into the business actually,” Dean said, wrapping his hands around the hot cup. “Wanted to get a sense of the price range.”

Meg quirked an eyebrow. “You know it’s men hiring you, right? Old guys with beer bellies who wanna do it in the front seat because their kid’s car seat’s in the back.”

He smirked. “Yeah. I got that part, thanks.” Dean had given the situation a lot of thought, mostly when he should’ve been sleeping. Women were sexy as hell—at least the hot ones were—but he’d seen plenty of guys that didn’t exactly turn him off. Dean knew this job wasn’t about his attractions, but being okay with the idea of a dick in his mouth should help, right? At least he figured it was a point in his favor.

“Well then.” Meg licked chocolate from her lip, then laid out the price range for him in graphic detail. Dean took notes, trying to keep up with her. It paid less than he’d hoped, but more than he’d make working for minimum wage.

“You being a boy, price might shake out differently,” she said, “but with that pretty face you should do fine. Got a name?”

Dean thought fast, his mind going to Led Zeppelin. “Robert.”

“Nice to meetcha, _Robert_.” She let his name linger on her tongue, making it clear she knew it was an alias.

Dean looked her hard in the eye. “Is Meg _your_ real name?”

She looked to where the sun was setting behind a fried chicken place. “I don’t remember back that far.”

Dean nodded. The way he figured, he could work two or three nights a week and still have time for Sammy and hunting. It wasn’t ideal, but it would get them through until they got to Bobby’s. And if he could take down whatever was killing these women while he was at it, then that was gravy.

Meg looked him over, taking in his nervous hands and stiff, hunched posture. “If this is your first rodeo you might want to consider an auction.”

“An auction?”

“For your virginity.” Meg’s conspiratorial grin looked like it might break her face in half.

Dean swallowed wrong and had a coughing fit. “Uh, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Giving handies in cars was one thing, but auctioning off his ass was a whole other ballgame. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Meg shrugged. “I’m just saying. Innocence has a street value.”

Dean sipped his coffee and looked across to where Hippy Chong and a girl he’d heard people call Rosie were doing a quick exchange. Maybe drug selling was a better deal after all. Nobody got off on whether it was your first time dealing crack.

“You happy with your location?” Dean asked, glancing to the street corner. “Seems a little open.” It had taken him only a few minutes to see how everything went down, and it probably hadn’t taken whatever monster he was hunting long either. He supposed he should add the cops to his list of concerns. Getting pulled in for solicitation would get Sammy put into foster care pretty damn fast.

Meg gave a shrug that could mean ‘I don’t know,’ or ‘I don’t give a shit.’ “You make more working indoors for someone like Crowley,” she admitted, “but then he’s making the decisions and you have to kick two thirds upstairs.” Her face took on a dark scowl and Dean realized she could be dangerous if she wanted to be. “I like what’s mine to stay mine.”

Dean nodded. The fewer people involved the better. He didn’t want to have to deal with some pimp who didn’t have a clue about what kind of uglies really went bump in the night. Stiil, he made a note to look into this Crowley guy. Maybe he was picking off the competition.

“What about safety?” Dean asked. “I read some stories in the paper.”

Meg glanced over to make sure Gabriel was occupied with customers, and then pulled a hunting knife far enough out of her jacket for Dean to see it glint. “Anyone messes with me and I’ll make him a new necktie.”

Dean smiled. “Sounds reasonable.”

“You want safe, get another job. Someone tries it on with me at least once a month. Follow the rules and you’ll be safer.” Meg leaned forward in her chair and counted off on her fingers. “One, get the cash upfront. Two, always carry condoms. No barebacking. And don’t buy any of that “latex allergy” bullshit. Three, no bondage, unless it’s them being tied up. Four, tell a friend where you’re going—I’m talking name, license plate, address, the whole enchilada. And five, always trust your instincts. Better to jump out of a moving car than be dragged out of the Missouri, you feel me?”

“Yeah.” Dean was confident he could handle himself with the clients. He was more worried about whatever might be masquerading as one. He had no idea what he was hunting yet or how to kill it. Decapitation was a solid go-to attack, but he couldn’t exactly take a machete on the job with him.

For a moment Meg’s carefree mask slipped. “Listen sugarlips, why don’t you get yourself a job at Micky D’s or Starbucks? Maybe see if Gabriel needs someone to work the register here.”

Dean shook his head. “I’d have to work five hours to make what I can offa’ one handjob.”

“If you’re sure.” She drained the rest of her mocha, savoring the sludgy chocolate at the bottom. “Stick with me. You’ll be okay.”

Dean looked at his watch and realized it was almost time to pick up Sammy. He gulped the rest of his coffee.

“I gotta be someplace,” he said. “But I can come back around four, four-thirty.”

Meg led the way to the door. “I’ll be around. I always am.”


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel finished reading back issues of the _Kansas City Star_ and moved on to _The Courier_. The third article on the killings was written by Bela Talbot, and Castiel paid it close attention based on what Captain Zachariah had said about her. She’d profiled some of the women who worked the area, using pseudonyms, and taking a sympathetic tone. He read over the portraits, listening for the cadence of their voices in the quotes she used. Based on her writing voice he suspected Talbot was British.

“Working the streets is dangerous,” claimed a source that Talbot described as a ‘oozing charm.’ “Smart ladies,” the man opined, “take the job indoors and make sure they have adequate security.” Castiel frowned. The man was clearly a pimp running women out of an indoor venue. Perhaps Nave, Waldroff, and Gill had refused to join the stable. He’d have to look into that.

He moved on to the notes supplied by officers working the beat and soon determined that Talbot’s charm oozer was likely Fergus Crowley, a naturalized US citizen originally from England. Castiel looked into Crowley’s immigration documents but figured there must be some mistake. Either someone had entered the wrong birthdate or the guy had spent three decades being in his late forties. Castiel’s money was on a data entry error. Or maybe the guy had stolen Crowley’s identity.

Hours later, when Castiel looked up from his work, it was dark outside and his coffee was cold. He carried the mug to the break room, dumped the drink, and then headed for his car. If he was going to check into Crowley there was no time like the present. He’d done his homework. The building was leased through a shell company out of London.

Castiel drove to the site registered to Crowley’s business and parked nearby. It presented itself as a private club, and at the door a burly security guard gave him the once-over before he was allowed inside. The first room was a low-lit bar with velvet walls where women in lingerie lounged on vinyl chairs, some of them chatting with clients. Castiel made his way to the bar, ordered a beer, and was immediately approached by a friendly blonde.

Castiel made small talk, but resisted taking their conversation to a private room. Finally he indicated that his needs were a little complex and he would like to speak with someone in management. The blonde assured him that she’d see what she could do, showed her teeth in a frozen way, and walked in quick steps to a man near a side door. Castiel watched him using the mirror behind the bar—5’11”, 190lbs, solid-looking. Close-cropped reddish brown hair. Late fifties or early sixties, with lips dark like liver and a solid body. He must be security. Castiel looked away just as the man’s eyes zeroed in on him. He sipped his beer and tried to look disinterested even as he felt the man approach.

A hand dropped onto his shoulder and Castiel looked up, his expression open.

“Interested in something special?” the man asked, his smile nearly a leer. “My name’s Alastair. I can get you what you need.”

Castiel remained sitting, making himself non-threatening as Alastair loomed over him.

“No need to be shy,” Alastair assured him. “I’ve heard everything you can imagine.”

Castiel was sure he had. He met the man’s eyes and neither of them looked away. It might have felt sexual if Castiel hadn’t felt so repulsed. “I’d like to speak to Crowley,” he said. “My request is very…specific.”

Alastair’s eyebrows raised and he looked Castiel over a second time, looking for the telltale bulge of a weapon. Finally he stepped back. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

Castiel sipped his drink and within minutes the man was back, “He can spare you a minute.”

He was led down a long hall with linoleum floors, easy for cleaning up blood. They took two left turns and then he was led into a plush office. The left wall had a two-way mirror looking into the bar, so the bosses could keep an eye on their stable.

To his right was a boyish man with floppy dark hair, dressed like he’d stepped out of a college dorm. If it weren’t for his cold eyes Castiel might have thought he was a client, but you needed to see a lot of ugliness before you developed a stare like that. Castiel focused on the man whose presence dominated the room despite being the shortest one there. He was wearing an expensive-looking black suit with a grey silk tie.

“Mr. Crowley?”

“And you’re the fellow with specific tastes.” Crowley was in his late forties or early fifties, with brown eyes, brown hair, 5’8”, 140lbs, working class London accent, with upper class pretensions judging by the suit. Castiel kept his face blank. He didn’t want the Бандер [pimp] picking up on his disgust. With men like this, emotion was a choke collar they’d use to control you. Crowley circled around his desk, his hand-made shoes sinking into the Persian carpet. He sat, and Castiel lowered himself into the only chair in the room, feeling Alastair and the baby-faced thug close in behind him.

Castiel launched into his cover story, explaining that he wanted to arrange weekly visits with men or women who wouldn’t be disturbed by his foot fetish. He figured this would get him time alone with the more experienced workers—people most likely to know anything about the murdered women and potential suspects.

“You’re pretty,” the man purred. “Are you sure you want to be a client? With those pillow lips I could find you more lucrative arrangement.” He smirked, flashing a set of dimples in his unshaven face. Castiel could see how women could fall for Crowley. He was polished, confident, and powerful in his fiefdom, such as it was. He probably held the power of life and death over people. Castiel wasn’t very old, but he’d seen a lot of men like Crowley.

“I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for work at the moment.”

Crowley nodded as if that was exactly what he’d hoped to hear.

“Boys,” he said, addressing his security force, “give us a minute, won’t you? This conversation is about to get extremely private.”

The men left without hesitation. Either they had no attachment to their boss, or they knew he could handle himself, or they’d learned the hard way to obey orders when he gave them. Possibly all three.

“We need to talk,” Crowley announced, all flirtation gone from his tone.”

“What about?” Castiel asked, trying to look disinterested as he ran over what mistake he might have made since entering the venue.

Crowley switched to Russian. His accent was Moscow, with slightly over-pronounced As. “I’ll get directly to the point,” he said curtly. “ You are a cop.” The word he used, _му́сор_ , actually meant garbage, but Castiel knew what he meant. "Don't bother to deny it.”

Castiel tried not to look nervous but he could feel his armpits dampen. Captain Zachariah had told him not to fuck up, and he’d done exactly that. He might not be walking out of here at all.

Castiel looked through the mirror into the bar, his mind working desperately fast. If the room was wired for sound, perhaps Crowley had overheard him speaking to the blonde, had heard something in his vowels that revealed him as a Russian speaker…no. Castiel rejected the thought. He’d been perfect. More likely, Crowley had someone on the inside who’d fed him Castiel’s file the moment he’d been assigned to the case. That made sense. Crowley had likely been waiting for his visit.

“Now I assume,” Crowley continued, “that you’re here about this business with the dead _бля́ди_ ,” he said, using the word for whores or sluts “I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding it. “Did I offend you?”

Castiel met Crowley’s gaze and held it, confirming nothing.

“Rachel Nave worked for me sometimes,” Crowley continued, and now Castiel had to work to keep from reacting. “Lovely girl. Very pretty. Skin like butter.” He sighed. “But sticky fingers. She took something that I value very much.”

Castiel allowed an eyebrow to rise. Here, at least, was a possible lead and motive.

“I would, of course, be willing to provide a substantial finders fee to whoever recovers it for me.” He looked at Castiel with round owl-like eyes. “Could you be that lucky someone?”

“Perhaps,” Castiel said in English.

“I’m looking for a hunting knife,” he said. He had switched to English now too. “Bone handle, silver blade, Kurdish inscription. You find it, you bring it to me.”

“How do you know Ms. Nave took your knife?”

“Such an innocent,” Crowley muttered and looked annoyed. “Let’s just say I have new rules about which little darlings come back to my office for playtime.” He leaned back in his chair. “I have no intention of interfering with your investigation. But I can assure you I had nothing to do with these _particular_ deaths.”

“What about the men in your employ?” Castiel asked. “Perhaps they went too far attempting to recover your property?’

Crowley smiled, but there was nothing warm about it. “My boys are well trained.” His voice was smooth but his face had hardened. He was getting angry. “They know not to shit where they eat.” He stood and came around to lean back against the front of his desk. “Now why don’t you fuck off and find my knife?”

He must have pressed a button under the lip of his desk because suddenly his security was back. He rubbed his nose and then made a dismissive wave toward Castiel. “Alastair, Christian, please ensure that Officer Krushnic makes it safely to his vehicle.”

“Let’s go, Pig,” Alastair growled, grabbing him roughly by the arm.

“ _До скорого_ [see you soon] Castiel promised, hoping that the next time they met he’d be handcuffing the smug little man.

“Anytime, Angel!” Crowley called after him. The two men behind him chuckled darkly as they steered him toward the exit.

* * *

 

Dean pulled the Impala up outside the junior high and waited, engine running.

On the way to get Sammy he’d stopped into a CVS and bought a pack of latex-free condoms, and now he read the folded insert with interest as he waited for school to let out. He’d used condoms, just never on somebody else before. He glanced around to confirm he was alone, then opened one and licked it tentatively before pulling a face. It tasted vile. He’d never tasted a dick but it couldn’t be worse, could it? Maybe. But if it meant that Sammy was fed and dressed and had school supplies then he’d adjust. It couldn’t be worse than the time he’d eaten those rancid tacos and spent a very long Tuesday puking into the toilet and wishing he was dead.

The passenger door opened and Dean shoved the condoms into his pocket as Sammy slid into the Impala and handed him a stack of photocopies.

“Ta da!”

“What’s this?” Dean flipped through the crisp papers. “Damn, Sammy! Police reports? Autopsies?” Dean was impressed. His father had used fake IDs to access police reports, but Dean was too young to pass himself off as a cop or Marshal. He’d considered posing as a relative of one of the victims, but if he got caught, Sammy was as good as gone, so he tried to accept that he’d be flying blind on this job. But what Sammy had just passed him covered all three victims. It was perfect. “Where’d you get these?”

The boy’s grin was wide. “Girl in my class has a dad in the KCPD. We were playing Truth or Dare, so I dared her to copy them.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. “And what’d she dare you to do?”

“Just some kissing.” Sammy’s face flushed and his dimples deepened. “No big deal.” Dean frowned. The last thing he needed was Sammy trading his first kiss away for research, even if it was—damn, was that a report on the suspected weapon? Conical, curved, no cutting edge. A horn, maybe?

Dean slapped him with the photocopies and shifted into drive. “Who’d you have to kiss? Bigfoot?”

Sammy slapped him back. “Shut up. Gwen’s a nice girl.”

Dean pulled out of the parking lot. “Think I might’a seen her. She the one with the monobrow and the lazy eye?”

“Jerk!” Sam punched him in the bicep.

“Hey! I’m drivin’ here, bitch!” Dean winced and laughed. Sammy was getting quite an arm on him. “Don’t make a habit of it, huh? We don’t need you on anybody’s radar. Especially the cops.”

“Your impression of dad is getting better,” Sammy deadpanned. “You gonna tell me my hair’s too long, too?”

Dean grinned. “Now that you mention it, I think you have a date with the clippers.”

Sammy rolled his eyes.

Back at the farmhouse Dean whipped up sandwiches for Sammy with the last of the baloney and bread. He ignored the grumbling of his own stomach and went over the police reports and autopsies while Sammy did homework.

“Hell!” Dean grimaced.

Sammy’s head shot up. “Find something?”

Dean looked at his brother, skinny legs out in front of him, science book across his knees. The kid’s sneakers were worn through, he noticed. Another thing to add to the list of expenses. Sam had started getting sideburns, and a bit of fuzz on his lip that he sometimes touched when he was reading. Dean should probably pick up some razors and teach him to shave. The kid was nearly fourteen and… fuck. Sammy had a birthday coming up. Dean covered his eyes with his hands hard enough to see spots. He needed to get on that. Sammy deserved better than crap shoplifted from a gas station. He dropped his hands and turned back to the files.

“Yeah, maybe. Coroner said the arms and legs were stripped of muscle and the facial wounds showed tooth marks. That didn’t make the papers.”

Sammy closed his book. “What do you reckon? A Wendigo?”

Dean pushed his lips out, looking like a duck. “Maybe. Whatever it is, it’s my problem, not yours.” He washed his face in the kitchen sink and checked his reflection in the window before grabbing his jacket. He pointed at Sammy and tried to look stern. “Finish your homework and wash the dishes while I’m out. Anyone comes by, get somewhere safe and text me. Got it?”

Sammy looked concerned, as if he were the parent instead of the kid. “Where are you going?”

“To work the case. Question witnesses. Talk to suspects.” Probably start blowing strangers for money.

Sam looked up with puppy eyes, breaking his heart into jagged pieces. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Relax, kid.” Dean laid a reassuring hand on his brother’s head. He really did need to dig out the clippers. “I’m the guy these cannibalistic sons a bitches outta be afraid of.” He tucked his Colt in his waistband, slipped his knife into a sheath on his leg, grabbed his keys, and headed to the Impala.

* * *

 

Sam waited until he heard the car pull away before reaching for the police reports. At 4:00pm he set the files aside, grabbed his jacket and backpack, and left the farmhouse. His sneakers crunched the gravel until he reached the main highway, at which point he hitched a ride back into the city.

The office of _The Courier_ was in a brick building on a sunny street near a furniture store and an Italian restaurant. Bela Talbot didn’t have an office, but she had a cubicle with a view of the restaurant’s parking lot. He’d called the paper at lunch, flirted with a switchboard operator named Janice, and made an appointment. Janice has been less sexy in person than on the phone, but Talbot was model material. Sam was pretty sure she’d be featuring in his dreams for a while.

“Hi, Miss, uh, Ms. Talbot,” Sam stammered. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her large grey eyes looked up from her laptop. “Oh, right.” She swung her chair to face him and motioned for him to pull up a seat from an empty desk nearby. “You’re my 4:30?” Her soft voice dripped in disbelief.

Sam swallowed. She had an accent. British, maybe? It was interesting.

“Yeah. It’s a school assignment to write about a job we’d like to do someday,” he said, trying to sound less excited than he was. “A day in the life kind of thing.”

“And you picked journalism?” Talbot raised an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” Sam leaned toward her. “I’ve been reading your series on the murders of sex workers. Nobody else’s coverage even made them sound human. I liked how you focused on them as people.”

Talbot looked mollified. “So what do you want to know? I can only spare a few minutes.”

Sam nodded. “What’s the editorial process like? Are there things the paper won’t let you print?”

Talbot let out a laugh like a crystal goblet struck by a knife. “God, yes!” She lowered her voice to a lush purr. “You can’t print any of the juicy rumors.”

“Hmm?” Sam tried to look mildly interested instead of desperate for information. The shaggy bangs helped, he thought.

“Well,” she pushed a lock of her long chestnut hair back from her face, “you can’t print anything that might get the paper sued. So I can’t write about my own theories.”

“What sort of theories?”

Bela looked at him as if she had x-ray vision designed to see lies. Finally, she sighed and spoke. “There’s rumours that the first victim, Rachel Nave, was working part-time for a local pimp who fancies himself king of the underworld. Just fancies himself, more like. Word on the street is that Nave stole something from him.”

“Something like?” Sam let his sentence hang.

Talbot shrugged, but her thin lips curled on the left side. “Suitcase full of money? Public school cricket trophy? Who knows? But my theory is that it got her killed.”

“So how do the other murders fit your theory?”

“Cecily Waldroff, and Casey Gill may have known something. The women who work that area are a close bunch. Maybe he’s killing his way through the group, trying to get his goodies back.”

“And you can’t print any speculation or the guy—the pimp—could sue the paper?”

Talbot looked annoyed, but not at him. “Yes, unfortunately.” She pursed her lips. “Crowley’s got the cash to buy the best lawyers in the state.”

“I appreciate your time, Ms. Talbot.” Sam stood and extended a hand, which Talbot shook distractedly, her thoughts already elsewhere. Sam didn’t mind. It was creeping up on 5:00pm and he had to get across town. Some of the guys at school had a recurring poker game and he’d finally wrangled an invite. He’d seen those guys play and he was pretty sure he was gonna clean up.

* * *

 

Dean parked the Impala and headed to work on foot, keeping his eyes peeled for a tail. Under no circumstances did he want anyone connecting anything he did tonight with Sam, ever.

His work started at Gabriel’s diner, where he met Ruby and Kate, who also worked Independence Ave., and Meg introduced him to their regulars.

“Hey Marv,” Meg purred. Marv was a short scruffy man in a pilled sweater vest. “I want you to meet Robert.”

“A pleasure!” Marv grasped Dean’s hand and shook it a little too long, watching him with hungry eyes. “Robert’s a fine name. Germanic. From Hrodebert, meaning ‘bright fame.’ It suits you.”

“Really. I didn’t know that.” Yep, this guy was definitely flirting with him.

“Robert’s joining us on the corner,” Meg explained.

“Lovely.” Marv leaned in close to Dean. “I’m no homosexual,” he assured him, “but neither am I a stranger to the sweet nectar of Ganymede’s cup.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Oh.”

“Marv is a writer.” Meg winked.

Marv licked his lips as if nervous. “I’d love to interview you for a novel I’m writing. A tale of innocence lost, and found.” He put a hand on Dean’s leg. “Just as soon as my dividend check comes in.” Dean put Marv down as worth a hard look on the suspect front due to his high creepy factor.

Next on the rounds was Garth Fitzgerald IV, a thin droopy guy who smiled brightly and shared his large order of fries. Dean was hungry as hell but tried to content himself with two or three. Maybe four.

“Pleasure to make yer acquaintance. You’re a friend of Meg’s?”

Meg chewed absently on a fry. “Robert’s gonna join us on the corner.”

Garth tittered. “But he’s a dude.”

Dean turned to Meg. “Did he just giggle at me? Was that a giggle?”

Meg cupped a hand around one of Garth’s big ears and whispered to him.

“Oh.” Garth’s round eyes got larger as she talked. “Oh!” He smiled at Dean. “I get it, now, bro. It’s all good. One love.”

“Yeah. Whatever, man.” Dean didn’t think Garth was his cannibal. The guy was too naïve. “Thanks for the fries.” He tried not to take more despite how hungry he felt. Now that he thought on it, maybe Garth was fattening them up to eat them. That was the problem with hunting a cannibal. It could be supernatural, or human, but he’d count it as a monster either way. Some of the worst monsters he’d met hadn’t been supernatural at all.

Last on the circuit was a heavy-set man with greying hair whose dim corner table was covered with newspaper cuttings and file folders. It reminded Dean of his uncle Bobby’s desk.

“Who’s the twinkie?” The man slapped a folder closed before Dean could see the contents.

“Play nice, Frank.” Meg ran a hand across the man’s dress shirt, which looked like it was on its third day. “This is Robert. He’s going to be working with us on the corner.”

“Robert?”

“Yeah. Nice to meetcha.” Dean extended a hand that Frank made no move to touch.

The old man gave him a steely glare through his drugstore glasses. “Your whole life you’ve been trained to respond to one name, and it sure as hell ain’t Robert. Rule one of aliases, kid, have a syllable in common with your real name. Mark becomes Clark. You get the idea?”

Dean glanced at the detritus on the table: a news story about twins separated at birth, a stack of papers wrapped in elastic with a post-it that read, ‘Organ Harvesting?’ and a folder marked ‘Lizards!!!’ Despite all the weirdness Dean had seen, he was pretty sure Frank was ready for a tinfoil hat. But was he also a murdering cannibal? It was worth a look.

“Yes sir.” Dean said, amused. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that, fudgepop.” Frank stacked his file folders heavily on top of one another. “Nice seeing’ you, Meg. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.” He turned sharply to Dean. “You ever worked at the post office?” he demanded.

“Can’t say as I have.”

“Keep it that way. Place is full of vampires.” He scooped up his files and left.

* * *

 

Most of the older boys at the poker table in Harry Spengler’s basement were drinking, and their play was getting sloppy. Sam sipped his ginger ale and tried not to let his excitement show, but he was holding pocket queens and a third lady had just shown up on the turn. Ed had sworn and thrown his head back, so he wasn’t having the best hand. Ash was having trouble seeing, based on the way he was squinting at his cards, and what he saw wasn’t making him too happy if the way he was chugging his Pabst Blue Ribbon was anything to go on. The only guy Sam was worried about was Kevin Tran, who was in advanced placement and still 100% sober. Ed announced he was out, tossed his card onto the table, and leaned back in his chair, looking defeated.

“Me too, amigos. Gotta drain the main vein.” Ash stood and headed for the bathroom.

Harry and Kevin placed the minimum bet. Sam looked at his money. This would have to be his last game if he wanted to get home before Dean did.

“All in.” Sam pushed his money forward.

Harry groaned but pushed his cash in. “Damn you, Winchester. You better have something better than my pair a—“

Kevin smacked him in the chest, shutting him up. He looked at Sam then glanced at the cards on the table. “I’m in.” He pushed his own money into the pot.

Harry burned a card and then dealt the river, the nine of clubs. They’d had a nine on the flop too. Sam exhaled slowly and evenly. He could beat anyone holding another nine, but if they had a pair he was screwed. Screwed and broke.

“It feels like you’re bluffing,” Kevin looked at Sam with that even stare of his. “Are you bluffing?”

“Three queens.” Sam turned his hand over and hoped that Harry or Kevin didn’t have nines.

Judging by how Harry swore and slapped his hand down, he didn’t, and Sam’s glance at his pair of tens confirmed it. He turned to Kevin.

“Well played, Winchester.” Kevin turned up his cards. Between his cards and the flop he had triple jacks.

“I gotta split, guys.” Sam pocketed his winnings. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Harry sighed. “Anytime. Always love to see my comic money leave in somebody else’s pocket.”

Sam waited until he was on the bus headed for the edge of town to count his winnings. He had $175. It wasn’t enough to buy that laptop he’d seen on Craigslist, but it would get them through next week just fine.

He got off at the last stop and walked the rest of the way to the farmhouse. Now he just had to figure out how to get some of the cash to Dean without telling him about the poker game.

* * *

 

Gabriel loved the espresso machine. It was big and shiny and loud, and there was always a chance it might explode, or so he’d heard from the guy who’d sold him the diner. He tamped the espresso and locked the portafilter into place before hitting the button for a double long. As the rich crema poured into the cup below he steamed the milk and thought about the kid hanging around with Meg.

He was supposedly joining her on the corner, and maybe he was, but he was also a hunter. No doubt about it. And hunters killed. He wondered if the kid might’ve had a hand in the deaths of Cecily, Casey, and Rachel. Although those ladies had been 100% human, so maybe he was after whoever did them in.

He took the cup and poured in the foamed milk. He didn’t think Meg was in any danger. That little chippy could handle herself in a fight and he’d caught a glimpse of that pig-sticker she thought she’d been so careful about hiding. But Kate was a werewolf, and a hunter wouldn’t care that she spent her fang and fur nights in Gabe’s heavily secured basement. To a hunter she’d be no better than a rabid dog and just as easy to put down. He’d have to give her the heads up, maybe get her out of town for a while.

Or maybe he should just sit the kid down and tell him that if he came near any of the freaks and geeks under Gabe’s protection that he’d be fed to a soul eater he knew in Overland Park. Or better yet, trapped in a dimension where he was the only human and the so-called monsters hunted him till he dropped. Yeah, that’d be poetic. Gabriel smiled and sipped his latte.

You didn’t mess with a trickster.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel had been working the case for a week now. In his cover as James Novak he’d become a patron of the Northeastern area’s sex workers. He’d used the discretionary money the Captain had provided and purchased an impressively large pedicure kit, and by pretending to have a foot fetish he’d managed to get a number of women talking while kneading their feet and painting their toes. They spent all day on their feet, he reasoned, so they could use the massage, and it kept them from wondering why he wasn’t getting more intimate. After a number of ‘dates’ the women let him buy them an occasional coffee or hot chocolate and as a result he was developing a good sense of the neighborhood and its inhabitants.

There was Kate, Ruby, and Meg, who were regulars on the stroll where the victims had worked. There was a sometimes sex worker they called “Cracklin’ Rosie” due to a recurring drug problem. She’d been in jail until recently, but assured him she’d seen the killer in a dream and that he had two faces. That was super helpful. There was Gabriel, a talkative and flirty dark-haired man who ran a diner. He was well-liked, in part because he let the women use his washroom to freshen up between jobs. He didn’t seem to be a client, but he was a suspect by right of his easy access to the victims. Any of the women would willingly get in a car with Gabriel.

He’d questioned some of the Johns who hung out in the diner, too. There was Marv, a wanna-be author who drank more than he wrote. Marv thought the murders would make a good novel, but had lacked knowledge about the crimes, which he assured Castiel could be “juiced up” in a later draft. There was Garth, a young dentist who came across as shy and awkward. Garth expressed concern for the safety of the “ladies on the job,” and Kate told him that Garth sometimes provided her with free dental care. He didn’t think Garth was his guy, but he asked Sergeant Turner to look into whether any dental instruments might match the injuries to the victims.

Castiel tried to talk with Frank, who had some kind of computer security job, but the old man was having none of it and called him a “narco pig.” Castiel worried he’d been made, but nobody took Frank seriously, probably due to the man’s delusions and bipolar disorder. He’d spoken briefly with a guy called “Hippy Chong,” but the man’s conversation had been scattered and distracted. Maybe he was high. The man had had offered to sell him “weed or ‘ludes,”which Castiel declined. Seriously, who even used quaaludes anymore?

There was Crowley, the smug club owner with contacts inside the police. Castiel sighed. Rachel Nave might have stolen Crowley’s knife, but it might not have anything to do with her death, or with the deaths of Cecily Waldroff and Casey Gill. If Crowley’s crew were behind the killings Castiel expected they’d have been more professional. Still, perhaps he’d outsourced to someone less stable. The club’s employment records listed Alastair and Christian as ‘security’ and as far as Castiel could tell they didn’t have an entire human heart between the two of them. He liked them as suspects. He kept an eye open and made himself an available listener.

Castiel cruised slowly along Wabash toward Independence in his champagne 1978 Lincoln Continental. Sergeant Turner had intended to assign him an unmarked vehicle until he saw Castiel’s personal car.

“I couldn’t set you up with a better cover ride than that pimpmobile.” Castiel didn’t mind using his own car. It felt good knowing his hand piece was hidden in the quick-release drawer under the driving column.

There was a cold, damp wind coming off the Rockies and he had the heater on. As he turned onto Independence he spotted Meg getting into a navy blue Hyundai Stellar. He pulled into a parking lot and jotted down the plate number, date and time. A knock sounded on his window and he slipped his notebook into a pocket and looked up into the most penetrating green eyes he’d ever seen.

* * *

 

As Dean walked into the wind along Wabash the leaves under his boots crunched like corn flakes.

“Thanks for all your help today,” he told Meg. When he solved this case he’d have to do something nice for her, if he could think of something he could afford.

She popped a stick of gum into her wide mouth. “Don’t forget it, either. You got a client who wants a three-way, you got my number.”

As they approached Independence a navy Hyundai pulled up.

“That’s my five-o’clock.” Meg waved as she got into the vehicle and Dean wrote the plate number down, hoping he’d never need it. He was sure Meg could take care of herself with most humans, but she didn’t have a clue about the scary shit that was driving around out there, looking for its next meal. Dean’s stomach grumbled and he supposed he could relate to the monster, at least on the next meal score. When he looked up again he saw a familiar Lincoln in the lot by the pharmacy. It belonged to someone the girls called ‘Hot Foot Guy.’ Meg said he’d paid her $50 to massage her feet and paint her toes and bought her a mocha. He’d heard a similar story from Ruby, but something about her made the hair on his neck stand at attention. Still, he trusted Meg to tell him the truth. She had so far.

Dean chewed his lip and approached the car. Maybe the guy was an equal opportunity toe painter. Having someone touch his feet for money would feel strange, but he could imagine worst scenarios for his first day on the job. And he could really use fifty bucks. He knocked on the window.

Hot Foot Guy rolled down the window and smiled a good smile, with crinkles at the edges of his eyes and dimples on his cheeks. His teeth were clean and white and even. Nothing about him read ‘cannibalistic monster.’ Yet, anyway. Going by the car, Dean had expected someone older, but this guy was in his early twenties, with dark bed-head, pale skin, and bright blue eyes. He could see why the girls called him hot. Dean became aware of his own heartbeat, heavy in his chest.

“Hey.” Dean smiled back, and he didn’t have to put effort into it, the smile just came, real and easy. “You looking for a date?”

The pretty blue eyes widened for a moment, as if surprised, and then the guy squinted and kind of tilted his head, making Dean wonder if he needed glasses. This guy would look good in glasses, too.

“How old are you?” The guy growled the question.

“Old enough. Maybe.” Dean winked. It had been Meg’s suggestion to say that so he wouldn’t spoil anyone’s underage fantasy. “You interested?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. It might be May but the wet weather went straight into Dean’s bones. He wondered if Sammy needed new gloves as well as shoes.

“Hop in.” The guy leaned across and unlocked the passenger door as Dean hurried around and slid inside, basking in the cozy warmth of the car.

“So,” Dean asked, turning to face Hot Foot Guy, “what can I do ya for?”

The man looked like he’d never seen another person before. It was unnerving. “How much for the whole evening?”

Dean froze. He hadn’t expected that. The stories pegged the guy as good for a foot rub and maybe a drink. But if he paid for the whole night he’d sure as hell want to go further than toe painting. Probably further than a fumbling handjob or a warm mouth. Shit. Dean was pretty sure that a guy who paid for the whole night was gonna want to fuck him. Still, if tonight went well he could get Sammy a new pair of kicks, and that might mean the difference between keeping him and losing him to some sketchy foster home.

Dean licked his lip, his mouth dry. “I can’t do overnight, but for four hundred I’m free until nine.” He needed to get back before Sammy went to bed. He never wanted the kid to feel abandoned or neglected like he had when John didn’t come home and Dean had invented excuses for his old man. Things were gonna be different now. Sammy was gonna eat right and get shoes when he needed them, and birthday presents, and Dean was gonna do whatever it took to make that happen.

“That’s acceptable.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Jimmy.”

“Robert.” Dean shook the hand, which was warm and soft. Guy must have an office job.

“Are you comfortable coming to my place, Robert?”

“Where’s your place?” Dean leaned back, felling the reassuring pressure of the Colt against his spine.

Castiel gave him an address on Benton Avenue, nearby.

“Fine. Just gotta let a friend know where I’m headed.” Dean pulled out his phone and sent Meg a text saying he was with Hot Foot Guy and giving her the address.

“That’s a good idea,” Castiel said as he nosed the Lincoln out of the parking lot.

“What’s that?” Dean pulled his mind out of a spiral of ass-related worry.

“The buddy system. For safety. Whoever gave you that advice must be a good friend.”

Dean shrugged. “She’s alright.” He’d learned that Meg had a sharp tongue, having watched her bitch Kate out for not checking in before she left with a client. He was 60% sure Meg wasn’t killing and eating her coworkers. Maybe even 70% sure. Ruby and Kate probably weren’t killers either, though he wouldn’t put it past Ruby to strip the valuables off your dead body.

Jimmy pulled into a parking garage on Benton and led Dean up to a fourth-floor apartment. Dean squirmed under the man’s scrutiny, but reminded himself that being watched was part of the job. Once inside, Jimmy removed his shoes at the door and Dean did likewise while Jimmy counted out four hundreds and set them on the coffee table. Trying to hide the hole in his dollar-store socks, Dean approached. The table held a partially completed jigsaw puzzle, but not much else. Did cannibalistic monsters do puzzles? Maybe. He’d killed a vamp that did paint by numbers once.

Dean pocketed the money and asked to use the bathroom.

“Of course.” Jimmy pointed down the hallway. “It’s the second on the left.”

He walked hesitantly down the hall, eyes alert. The first left was a bedroom, with a futon bed. He slipped inside and looked for anything to tie Jimmy to the victims, but found himself staring at the bed, wondering if he’d be spending his evening face down on the mattress.

The only thing that struck him as odd was that the room was barely lived in. The futon and dresser looked the same age, bought from one of those places that make you assemble it yourself. Two of the bureau drawers were empty and the closet didn’t have any accumulated crap like extra pairs of shoes or boxes of photos, or off-season clothes. It was more like the closet of a motel. He turned to the bed, sliding a hand under the mattress but finding nothing, not even a porn mag. Someone had slept on the pillow recently, and if that was Jimmy then he had a nice scent—clean, but also spicy and warm, reminding Dean of cinnamon and leather. But the smell wasn’t strong enough for the guy to be sleeping there full-time. Or maybe he’d just moved in, owned next to nothing, and was a stickler about clean sheets. Maybe.

He tiptoed to the bathroom, noting the lack of vitamins, medications, Band-Aids, athlete’s foot powder, or old cologne. He found two pieces of dental floss in the garbage. Maybe Jimmy didn’t floss every day. Or maybe he’d just taken out the trash, or maybe he wasn’t using his bathroom often. He looked up at the suspended ceiling and stepped carefully onto the edge of the tub, lifted one of the panels and looked inside. It was just a dusty space—no bodies, no weapons, nothing. After checking the toilet tank and coming up empty he flushed, washed his hands, did a comforting check of his gun and knife, and headed back to the living room. He hadn’t found a thing, but something was definitely up with this place. Maybe Jimmy had a wife and kids somewhere else and used this place to entertain.

Or maybe he only used this place on a kill night.

When Dean returned to the living room Jimmy asked if he wanted a drink, and when Dean said “maybe,” told him to help himself from the fridge. Dean gave the freezer and garbage a check for human remains then stared into the well-stocked fridge. The sight of so much food made Dean’s mouth water. He considered quickly chowing down on some of the sandwich meat but figured stealing from your client was probably a dick move.

Jimmy had beer and Dean spent a few moments wondering if the pain-numbing properties of booze were worth the slowed reflexes. He decided to err on the side of caution and grabbed a can of soda. It was sealed, with the right amount of air pressure, so the likelihood that the guy had doped it was low.

“Bring you anything?” Dean called out to him.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Dean handed the man a root beer and sat on the couch, trying not to let his legs twitch with nervousness. This was for Sammy. If he kept his mind on the money he’d be fine. Four hundred bucks could carry them a couple of weeks, maybe longer. First thing he’d do, after buying Sammy new shoes and gloves, was to get a decent batch of groceries. He’d even grab some of those salad kits Sammy always asked for, and some multivitamins.

Jimmy’s eyes were on him again, but Dean didn’t feel like he was being mentally stripped, like when Marv looked at him. He felt sweaty and took a sip of soda, then chewed his lip until he spotted the stereo.

“Mind if I put on some music?”

“Go ahead.” Jimmy frowned as Dean sorted through the small collection of discs. “I’m not sure what I have.”

“CCR ok?” Dean turned, grinning and holding up a copy of Chronicles, Vol. 1.

“Sure.”

The steady sound of the drums and John Fogarty’s baritone singing Suzy Q made things less ominous. Jimmy was on the couch, his drink on the coffee table. Dean eyed the other end of the couch and eased in close to Jimmy instead, laying a hand on the guy’s leg and rubbing it through the fabric of his jeans. It was a nice leg; muscular, but not over-developed. He must be a runner or something.

“So what’d you have in mind for this evening?” Dean asked. Not knowing was driving him crazy. When he’d approached the guy he’d expected to come away with painted toenails, but the four hundred in his pocket changed everything. Dean took a few calming breaths. At least the guy was attractive. Worst case scenario he’d grit his teeth and wait for it to be over. He’d had some bad hunting injuries, so he knew his pain tolerance was pretty high. Maybe it’d be easier if he thought of it as just another rough night on the job.

The blue-eyed man stilled his hand with a touch and smiled. Dean briefly wished the guy would reveal three sets of fangs and try to eat his face so he’d feel justified in decapitating him, taking the money, and leaving. But he didn’t have that kind of luck. He steeled his nerve and smiled back.

Let’s do this.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel hoped his nervousness didn’t show, but he could feel the dampness under his arms wetting his shirt and he could feel his heart punching against his ribs. They were at the apartment Sergeant Turner had set up for his Jimmy Novak identity, but he felt like he was about to take an exam. He’d done dozens of interviews already, but something about this one was making him a wreck before he even started. He took slow calming breaths and wiped his palms on his pants while Robert went into the kitchen.

He accepted the root beer, although he didn’t need the sugar the way his body was practically vibrating, and looked at the young man beside him. Castiel hadn’t seen him on the stroll before, and anyone new was worth looking into as a suspect or potential victim, so the four hundred dollars was an easily justifiable work expense. That wasn’t what was bothering him.

Castiel felt an undeniable tug of attraction to Robert, which made him feel guilty and desperate all at once. Maybe those pretty green eyes reminded him of his mother, or maybe it was how cold and vulnerable the kid had looked when he knocked on the car window, but the moment Castiel had seen him he’d wanted to protect him. He pushed his embarrassing feelings to the corner of his mind even as he felt his face heat up and knew he must be blushing. He sighed. Maybe he wasn’t all that different from the kind of cop that slept with sex workers. He felt his stomach churn and tried to focus on the job. Gain his trust and get him talking. He could do this. He had to.

Robert squeezed up close to him on the couch and touched his thigh, sending a jolt through his already overloaded system.

“So what’d you have in mind for this evening?” The teen’s hand shook as he tried to rub Castiel’s leg. Robert’s body was processing adrenaline. Maybe he was new to this. Castiel covered the trembling hand with his own and smiled, hoping to put him at ease.

“How do you feel about puzzles?” he asked.

“Puzzles?”

“Yes. I do puzzles.” Castiel gestured to the coffee table where his latest work, which the company had entitled “Sunny Afternoon,” lay in pieces. The relief on Robert’s face was evident, and Castiel’s urge to protect him increased.

He wasn’t sure why he’d invited Robert to help with the puzzle instead of getting out the nail polish kit. But puzzles were one of his favorite time-killers when he stayed at the apartment, and sorting and fitting the pieces would be a good backdrop to his style of interrogation. For the next hour they assembled the image of a ramshackle country house and made small talk. Castiel started by discussing astrological signs, which led Robert to reveal that he’d been born in January.

“When about in January? The day you’re born determines if you’re Capricorn, the goat, or Aquarius, the water bearer.”

“The twenty-fourth,” Robert said. “I really hope I’m not a goat. Had a bad goat-related experience once. Big angry one, with horns.”

“Born on the twenty-fourth, you’re an Aquarius,” Castiel said, not looking up from the puzzle. “People say they’re dedicated to making the world a better place.” He waited for Robert to respond. Given an open-ended question followed by an expectant silence, most people filled the space without prompting.

“I don’t know ‘bout that,” Dean said after a while. “I do what I can.”

Castiel heard a sound, quickly lost as the teen coughed into his fist.

“Are you okay?”

“M’Fine. I think this might be part of that orange tabby.” He passed a piece across to Castiel, who linked it up, filling in the animal’s bushy tail.

“Thanks.” He glanced at Robert, gauging his mood, then back to his pieces. “Do you usually have a good eye for detail?”

“Maybe if we’re talking cars. I picked up a bit from my father and uncle Bobby. Puzzles I ain’t got much experience with.”

Bobby was short for Robert. Castiel knew that none of the women on the job used their own names, so perhaps the youth was using his uncle’s name as an alias. He filed the idea away, even as he wondered where this father and uncle were if Robert was doing sex work. He was about to prod the subject when he heard the sound again—a troubling gurgle—that he was now certain came from Robert’s stomach. Castiel looked at the hollows on the teen’s face, recognized the drawn look of someone who rarely ate a proper meal, and then mentally kicked himself for not noticing sooner.

“I’m hungry,” Castiel announced, reaching for a delivery flyer. “Do you like pizza?”

Robert grinned. “Pizza’s cool.”

“I’m kind of a meatlovers guy,” Castiel said, turning the flyer over, looking at the specials. If Robert hadn’t eaten recently he probably needed protein most.

“I never woulda guessed,” The young man looked up nervously, watching his reaction. “I usually see you with women.”

Castiel flashed a smile he thought had too much gum. Keeping a professional distance with women was easy, but there was something about the smattering of freckles across Robert’s cheeks that made Castiel feel his own inexperience. This was an important assignment and he couldn’t screw it up by falling for the first hot guy he questioned. He remembered the Captain’s warning and concentrated on the flyer.

“What do you take on your pizza?”

“Same as you. Thanks.” Robert turned down the volume on CCR’s Proud Mary then stared at him like he’d hung the moon as he paced, calling in an order for two large meatlovers pizzas.

“Anybody ever call you Jim?” Dean asked, once they’d returned to the puzzle.

“Would you like to?” Castiel asked. Nicknames were usually a sign of acceptance, but they could also be about control.

Dean shrugged. “Not if you mind.”

Not control, then. “I don’t mind.” The thought of gaining Robert’s acceptance warmed him more than it should. “Have you been doing this work long?” He asked, hoping the answer was no.

“Not long at all.” The teen attached three pieces together forming a section of cottage roof. “How ‘bout you? Been a client long?”

He shook his head. “I just moved here from Illinois.” Castiel snapped two pieces together and stared at them. He was pretty sure it was part of the sleeping dog. “But my mother was in the life.” He sat up and drank root beer, silently lecturing himself to get it together. He hadn’t meant to share anything personal, but it had come tumbling out. He needed to remember this was work, not a date.

“Really?” The teen looked at him anxiously. Maybe he was thinking about his own loved ones, and how they’d feel about his job.

He nodded. “I loved her very much, but she got early onset dementia. She doesn’t recognize me when I visit now.”

“Aw Jeez. That bites. I’m sorry, Jim.”

Castiel shrugged. “She’s in an excellent care facility. I know she’s safe.”

They continued on the puzzle but when Robert handed him a piece next he squeezed Castiel’s hand reassuringly.

“Lost my dad recently,” he said, his voice low. “Work-related accident.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Castiel’s brain shifted into work mode. This was the kind of information he was supposed to be collecting. With enough details he could get a real identification on Robert and do a background check. For the case.

Robert waved a hand. “You know how it is.”

Castiel knew exactly how it was. Suddenly you were facing life without the person on whom you’d always relied. Like driving without a map. He sorted through the pile of pieces looking for the weathered grey of the porch. “Do you have other family?”

A smile drifted across Robert’s lips. “Got Uncle Bobby, the old grouch. Though he’s not really an uncle, we just call him that. Business friend of my father’s, really. Lives in Kansas. I been thinking of visiting him, but I’ve got obligations that keep me here. For now, anyway.”

Castiel wondered about those obligations, and about the teen’s shift from ‘I’ to ‘we,’ language, but none of his prodding led Robert to say more on the subject.

The doorbell interrupted a discussion about classic cars, on which Robert seemed well informed, and as Castiel paid the deliveryman Robert changed the music on the stereo. It began to play a song he didn’t recognize, with lots of guitar and a Southern voiced singer.

* * *

 

Gabriel nodded to Alastair and slipped past him down the slightly sticky hall to Crowley’s office. The whole place smelled like sulfur to him. He didn’t know how the clients could stand it. Christian opened the door and let him inside. These low-level demons knew better than to mess with him.

“Loki. Or is Gabriel now? So hard to keep track.” Crowley closed a folder on his snobby imported desk and looked up. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gabriel glanced at Christian with an expression that said he’d like to burn his twisted soul out of his meatsuit. Their ugly faces shifting beneath their human masks made him itch.

“Chrissy baby, if you’d please?” Crowley gestured to the door.

“I’ll be right outside,” Christian assured him.

“I feel safer already,” his boss purred. He turned to Gabriel. “Now, what brings the trickster to my little den of iniquity?”

“Consider it professional courtesy. We’ve got a hunter sniffing around.” Gabriel helped himself to a round red lollipop from a little bouquet of them on the demon’s desk, pulled off the plastic, and popped the tart cheery candy into his cheek. “He wouldn’t be after your lot, by any chance?”

“A hunter, you say?” Crowley’s eyebrows raised and he leaned back, taping his fingertips together.

Gabriel couldn’t tell if Crowley was surprised or merely pretending to be. He wasn’t nearly as old as Gabriel, but he’d been around long enough to learn how to school his emotions.

“Yeah. He’s working the corner.” Gabriel shifted the sucker to the other cheek. Maybe Robert was working the corner or maybe it was a cover. He wasn’t sure if it mattered much either way.

“Intriguing.” Crowley looked thoughtful. “You don’t suppose he’s behind our sudden population problem, do you? Did your friends have any qualities that might put them on the monstery end of the spectrum?”

Gabriel crossed his arms. “For all I know, _you_ killed Casey, Cecily, and Rachel.”

“Oh please!” Crowley laughed, sounding genuinely amused. “I’d loved to have killed Rachel,” he admitted. “But I’d have done so _after_ retrieving the little trinket she stole from me.” He looked up at Gabriel, a smile courting his lips. “Silver knife, bone handle, Kurdish inscription. Don’t suppose you’ve seen it?”

“Not since the invention of the printing press.” Gabriel pulled the sucker from his mouth and pointed the shiny end at Crowley. “You had a demon-killing knife and lost it?” He clucked his disapproval. “You’re getting soft, Fergus.”

Crowley looked peeved. He never did like people knowing his first name. Gabriel wondered if going by Crowley gave the demon a thrill of stardom, like being Cher or Madonna.

“My point is,” Crowley seethed, “if you find it I’d appreciate its swift and intact return. Preferably not to my torso.”

“Perish the thought.” Gabriel rubbed a hand across his chin, enjoying the image nonetheless. “So this hunter. You’ve no idea who he’s after?”

“I didn’t say that.” Crowley leaned forward and Gabriel approached cautiously. “My man in blue tells me that someone’s been snacking on our ladies of the night. Pre and postmortem.”

Gabriel went motionless. “You don’t say.”

“I do.” Crowley showed his palms. “Just the sort of behavior to attract a hunter. Perhaps Rachel and her friends came across something with big fangs and a hearty appetite.”

Gabriel slurped on the candy and nodded. The story made a certain kind of sense. Monster eats women, attracts hunter. If he waited long enough maybe one problem would take care of the other.

“And that something has your Kurdish knife?”

“Maybe.” Crowley’s genuine annoyance flashed through for a moment. “I’ve had people combing the pawnshops and internet, but for all I know the greedy bastard picked his fangs with it and chucked it. It could be in a landfill by now.”

“Boo fucking hoo.” Gabriel bit his lower lip. “So what are we looking for? Wendigo? Rugaru? Leviathan?”

“If I knew I’d have taken steps to get my bloody knife back!” Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’ll put out feelers and see what I can find. Can I trust you to do the same?”

“Yeah. The sooner we find this guy the sooner we can get this hunter off our case.”

“Or perhaps we can simply lead him into our little critter’s waiting arms?”

Gabriel scowled. He preferred not to kill humans, but he might make an exception for a hunter; particularly if that hunter was a threat to any of his friends.

* * *

 

Once they started to devour the pizza, Robert shuffled closer, the sofa cushions tilting him toward Castiel.

“You mind my askin’ a personal question, Jim?”

“You can always ask.” Castiel inhaled, long and slowly. Up close, Robert smelled like leather, and something industrial—engine grease, maybe?—and something warm and exotic, like Sandalwood, or Vanilla. It was a spicy, masculine scent that made him feel drunk. God, why did he smell so good?

“Okay.” Robert smiled, and Castiel wished he could always see him this happy. “The girls call you Hot Foot Guy. I think you know why.”

Castiel nodded, feeling his face heat up. “What’s your question?”

“You only into ladies feet?” He folded a piece of pizza and bit off half in one go. “I only ask ‘cause I got feet too,” he finished chewing and swallowed, “but here we are, doing a puzzle.” The food he was chewing made the word sound like ‘pazoo.’ He swallowed. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice puzzle. I’m just curious.”

“I’m not sure what I’m into,” Castiel said carefully. “I haven’t done much dating. Feet seemed…easy.” He wasn’t about to get into his history of failed first and second dates with nice girls who left him bored and wondering if there was something wrong with him. Daphne and Hannah had both been conservatively religious, so sex hadn’t been an option. April had been gentle at first, teaching him how to please her, but things between them soured quickly and their angry breakup left him feeling like he’d been stabbed in the chest. He’d focused on his work after that.

Robert licked tomato sauce from his lips. “Hey, that’s cool. I don’t know what all I’m into either.” He flushed. “I mean, I got some ideas. Lucy Liu, Pam Anderson…Dr. Sexy.” He wiped his fingers on the thin paper napkins before touching the puzzle again, then snapped a piece into place, completing the weathered roofline. “Bein’ here with you is pretty nice.”

Castiel felt something melt warmly inside his chest. Most of his social interactions required work, keeping his brain engaged to make sure he said and did the right things to get the responses he wanted. Being with Robert felt easy.

At eight o’clock, with the puzzle showing a cat and dog napping on a sunny porch, Robert cleared his throat.

“Listen, you’re paying for this, and you got an hour left on the clock.” He ran a hand across his neck. “So if you wanted to, uh, _do_ anything, then we should get on that.”

Castiel felt an inappropriate surge of heat. The teen looked like he was facing a firing squad and Castiel wondered how sexually experienced he really was. He cleared his throat. “If it’s all the same to you I’d like to continue as we are.”

“Yeah?” Robert’s soft lips curled up at the edge. “If you’re sure. That’s fine by me.” He turned back to the puzzle noticeably more relaxed.

Later, when the alarm on Castiel’s phone let him know it was almost nine, he stood. “Thanks for your company, Robert. I had a lovely time. Where can I drop you?”

The teen looked thoughtful. “You know Gabriel’s diner?”

“I do.” Castiel eyed the pizza and thought about how Robert’s stomach had grumbled. “I’ve had my fill of pizza. I don’t suppose you could take the rest of it off my hands, could you?”

Robert smiled and his cheeks dimpled. He really did have a great smile. “Can’t say no to free pizza.”

Castiel led them down to the parking lot and back into the long wide Lincoln.

Robert gestured toward the radio. “You mind?”

He shook his head and the teen tuned in a station. When his fingers left the controls Robert set his hand on Castiel’s thigh and kept it there as they drove along the dark street, listening to Van Morrison singing Brown Eyed Girl. As they pulled up to the diner Robert passed him a slip of paper torn from a pocket-sized notebook.

“That’s my number. You want to get together again for puzzles, or feet, or whatever, text me.”

“Thanks.” Castiel smiled and the teen turned green eyes on him, making his throat feel tight. That protective urge pushed through again. “Listen, Robert,” he began, “Are you aware of the sex workers who’ve been murdered recently?”

“Coupla women, wasn’t it?” He picked nervously at the pizza boxes in his lap.

“Three actually. I just hope you’re careful when you work.” Most of the women working this job had someone who would miss them if they didn’t come home. He hoped Robert had someone like that too. The moment where the teen had used ‘we’ still tugged at the back of his brain. Maybe he had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend. He tamped down a surge of jealousy.

“Don’t worry, Jim, anyone who tries to go all Donner Party on my ass me is gonna get the surprise of their life.” He smiled. “But thanks for worrying.” He laid a soft kiss on Castiel’s cheek.

As he watched Robert leave, he felt the warm ghost of the kiss on his cheek, but the rest of him was numb.

The Donner Party. Castiel recalled the story of the pioneers who resorted to cannibalism when trapped by heavy snow in the mountains of California. How had Robert known the victims had been eaten? The police had withheld that. The possibilities hurtled through his mind like a traffic collision. Either Robert heard it from someone or he knew it firsthand. If it was the former, then the teen might be in danger. If it was the latter, he was the best suspect they had. He watched as Robert strolled up Wabash, clutching the pizzas. Suddenly his jokes about meat took on a sinister bent. Castiel waited until the teen was almost out of visual range before cruising after him.

Further up Wabash he watched Robert enter a black Impala. He didn’t expect a young sex worker to be driving a classic car, and anything incongruous was suspicious. As Castiel headed north the Impala pulled behind him. He kept him in his rear-view for a few blocks then turned into the darkened drive of an elementary school. He waited until the Impala passed, then slipped into traffic several cars behind. His fears ratcheted up another notch when he noticed that Robert was taking precautions against a tail.

Who was this guy?

* * *

 

Back at the farmhouse Sam finished his homework and started going through the books he’d borrowed on Missouri legends, hoping to find reference to any creatures that fit the behavior pattern. He looked through the indexes for cannibalism, and followed up on each one, but most were references to early settlers who got desperate when supplies ran out. One reference caught his interest—a Sioux legend about a monster that passed as human and ate its victims. This story had called it the ‘double faced woman.’ The book was scanty on detail, but it provided a reference. Sam closed the book and paced the empty livingroom. He might be onto something, but he needed to know more before he went to Dean with this. He’d already exhausted the collection at his school. If he wanted to learn more he’d need a bigger library—maybe the one over on West 10th Street. He could go after school tomorrow. He just needed to get Dean on board.

* * *

 

Castiel hung back, his heart in his throat, as the Impala drove through the dark, headed out of town. For ten minutes the car was only visible as a set of lights, then it pulled into a drive and circled around behind a dark farmhouse. Castiel killed his engine and turned off his own headlights. He waited, and when the Impala didn’t emerge he grabbed his gun from its concealed compartment and stepped out, approaching on the grass to muffle his steps. The windows and front door of the house were boarded up. Was that to prevent people from seeing in, or from getting out? A nervous sweat broke out on his back. This was not good.

As he rounded the farmhouse he heard voices inside. The boards were broken and sparse on the rear of the house, and could see Robert through the kitchen window, leaning against an ancient fridge as a younger boy in sweatpants and a faded AC/DC shirt sat on the counter eating pizza. Castiel crept close and listened in, hidden in the wild growth that had encroached on the abandoned house.

“How’d it go?” The younger teen asked. “Make any progress?”

“Nah. But it wasn’t all a bust.” Robert flashed that beautiful smile again. “Made a new friend.”

“That’s good,” the youth mumbled around a mouthful of pizza. “Boy or girl?”

“Both, now that you mention it. There’s this one girl, Meg. Pretty, but tough, you know? Good in a fight, I bet. And Jim, well, he’s….” Robert turned toward the sink and began to fill it with hot water. “He’s really cool.”

The younger teen grabbed another slice of pizza from the open box. “It’s okay if you like him, Dean. I’m not dad.”

Castiel pulled out his notebook and began to write. Robert’s real name was Dean. He tried not to think about what Dean had said about him, but warmth wrapped around him nonetheless. His prime suspect thought he was ‘really cool.’ There was no way that should please him this much.

Dean turned back to the kid, his face serious. “Don’t finish all that pizza tonight, huh? Leave enough for breakfast and lunch.” He closed the box and slid them both into the fridge. “After school tomorrow we’re going food shopping.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. At a real grocery store. Get some decent stuff for a change. Whaddaya say, Sammy?”

“Okay.” The teen looked hesitantly happy. “Look, can we drop the Sammy? I’m not twelve. Call me Sam. Everyone else does.”

Dean grinned. “Everyone else ain’t your older brother. Homework done?”

“Of course it’s done.” Sam tugged at Dean’s shoulder, turning him. “Listen, I know you’re probably gonna say no, but I could help with the hunting, if you’d let me.”

Castiel’s veins chilled as he jotted down their conversation. Maybe Sam was talking about actual hunting, or maybe he was talking about a cannibalistic killing spree. Suddenly the fact that Dean thought he was cool didn’t matter as much.

“Look, I appreciate the thought, but it’s too dangerous. You’re not old enough yet.”

“That’s bullshit, Dean. I’m turning fourteen in a few days.”

“I said no.”

“Come on,” Sam said, with just a hint of whine to his voice. “You were doing way more at my age.”

“Yeah. With Dad. And look how that turned out. Besides, you need to keep your grades up so you can get into university. Become a doctor or a lawyer.” His green eyes sparkled, looking playful even from Castiel’s vantage point in a patch of waist-high weeds. “Give me someone to mooch offa.”

Sam looked pleadingly up at his brother. “I’m only talking about research. It’s the public library. How dangerous could it be?”

Dean nodded reluctantly. “Okay. We’ll give it a try. But you find anything, text me right away.”

“I will. Thanks, Dean.”

He pointed a finger at the boy. “And no more truth or dare. Find a new excuse to kiss that girl. Take her to the movies. That’s more of a proper date anyhow.”

“I appreciate your advice, Romeo,” Sam said dryly. “Have you ever _had_ a second date?”

“Hey!” Dean complained, grin widening. “I’ve even gotten to three a few times.” He ran a hand playfully through the boy’s hair. “Which is how I know this mess ain’t gonna help you get _any_ girls.”

Sam pulled his head away. “Shut up. It looks good shaggy.”

“Yeah, you look like Shaggy now, but if it grows much longer you’re gonna look like Daphne.”

Sam jumped down from the counter. “You could go to the movies with Jim, you know. I wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s it. Haircut tomorrow!” He reached out to Sam’s head again.

“In your dreams.” Sam ducked the grasping hand and disappeared through the doorway.

“That’s a good idea,” Dean called after him. “I should cut it while you sleep!”

Castiel moved closer, secure in the knowledge that with the darkness outside the windows would show Dean only the reflection of the lit kitchen. He watched as Dean turned to the sink and began to hand wash what looked like a load of laundry. Was he washing out bloodstains?

Castiel waited in the tall grass until the lights in the house all went out and then he crept to the Impala. The trunk was locked, but that wouldn’t matter. Dean’s use of withheld knowledge gave Castiel probable cause to search the car. He pulled a tiny pouch from his pocket, toyed with the lock, and soon the trunk released with a soft ka-chunk. He eased the lid up and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

 _Пиздец!_ [Cunt!]

The trunk was filled with weapons and occult symbols. It smelled faintly of that spicy sandalwood and vanilla smell he’d associated with Robert—no, Dean. He remembered how vulnerable and innocent the teen had looked and ridiculously, he felt like he might cry. It had to be the cold air making his eyes and nose water. Sworn officers of the law did not cry over their prime suspects in multiple homicides.

He felt a calm numbness seep into him as he glanced up at the old weathered house. This wasn’t a romance novel. He had a job to do. Sure, Dean was appealing to him physically, but being desirable was Dean’s job. He’d probably read Castiel like a book, knowing the innocent waif act would appeal to his urge to protect. Dean had played him.

His brain engaged as his feelings retreated into some dark corner of his mind. He’d need a warrant before he could search the farmhouse, unless he heard screaming from inside, and he really hoped it wouldn’t come to that. From his conversation with the kid it sounded as if Dean might be looking for his next victim. He pulled out his phone and documented the trunk contents, the snap of the electronic shutter sounding loud in the quiet night.

He should have been elated at having a suspect, but he only felt disappointed.

* * *

 

Sam was part furious and part terrified. He’d waited until Dean was asleep and then gone through his jacket, intending to slip some of his poker winnings where his brother might mistake it for his own money. First he’d found the condoms, and rolled his eyes. Dean was seventeen, so it made sense, he supposed. Then he’d come across Dean’s notebook and flipped it open, wanting to see the case notes. Dean’d been interviewing people, he’d said.

It took him a few pages to realize. His brother had made notes about the sex trade, jotting down names of contacts, notes on how the women got picked up and dropped off, a few license plates and car descriptions, and a list of their regular clients and the likelihood that they were a monster. So far so good.

And then he found a page where Dean had worked out exactly how many blowjobs he’d need to give to cover their expenses. Sam stepped outside where his urge to punch through the wall could be soothed by the cold air. He paced the gravel drive, back and forth, wondering if he was being a homophobe. He didn’t think so. If Dean wanted to date a guy, Sam would have had zero problems with it. But this was a whole other ballgame. This was dangerous, and exploitative, and..and..and gross. Just really, really gross. He felt hot tears slipping down his cheeks. This was all his fault. If he wasn’t such a financial drag on Dean he wouldn’t have considered selling himself. Sam kicked a rusted bucket across the drive and into the weed-choked field beyond.

He took deep breaths and tried to calm himself. Maybe it wasn’t too late. He could tell Dean about the poker games. They could find other games in the city, with bigger pots. Maybe Dean hadn’t gone further than research yet…and then he remembered the pizza and Dean’s promise of going grocery shopping.

Sam wiped his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt and sat, head hanging. He needed to get this case solved fast so they could go stay at Bobby’s. There was no way Bobby would let Dean do this. He though wistfully of school, but there’d been lots of years he didn’t finish school. He’d talk to his teachers and do some work ahead of time. Worst case scenario, if they took off tomorrow he could still pass all his classes. He’d start fresh in South Dakota in September.

He slipped back inside, the cold air burning his lungs and tried not to slam the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean dreamed about kissing. His fingertips skimming the hard, bristly planes of Jim’s jaw as he leaned in to push their mouths together. Dean hadn’t kissed a guy on the mouth before, but kissing Jim felt soft, natural, inevitable. He prodded Jim’s lips gently with his tongue and Jim’s warm mouth tasted like apple pie.

He pulled back to stare at Jim’s disheveled hair. He wanted to put tiny kisses on the wrinkles that formed around his eyes when he smiled. He wanted to kiss that scruffy neck, smell his clean smooth skin, unbutton his shirt and circle his nipples with his tongue. He even wanted to—

“Sorry,” he apologized to dream-Jim as his grumbling stomach cut in, like loud radio feedback.

“We should eat,” dream-Jim said.

“I could order pizza.” Dean looked down. He had four hundred dollars in his hand.

“No need.” Jim pulled a roast from the oven and soon they were tucking into it with sides of mashed potatoes with gravy. It smelled like Christmas at other people’s houses might smell.

“This is delicious,” Dean mumbled, his mouth full.

“I’m a bit of a meat lover,” Jim admitted. “Can I get you another slice?”

Dean looked down at the pan and realized they’d been eating a human foot. He woke cold and sweaty, with a pounding headache.

* * *

 

Castiel snapped awake in his car, dreams of puzzles evaporating, and checked the clock on his dash. It was almost 7:00am, which explained the weak sun coming through the windshield. He’d hidden in the tall grass, watching the house for most of the night. Around 1:00am Sam had come outside, clearly distressed. Castiel had considered approaching him, maybe getting Sam to come in and testify against Dean, but he’d had gone back into the house before Castiel could make his move.

He’d crept back to his car, started the engine, and switched on the heater to chase away the dampness, then driven to where the road met the highway, and pulled into a lay-by, gritting his teeth as brush scraped the sides of his car. He’d reclined and grabbed a few hours of shut-eye. Now he stepped out of the car, stretched, and relieved his bladder before resuming his stakeout.

The Impala cruised by just before 8:00 and Castiel tailed it, staying as far back as he could, eventually watching Dean drop the boy at school. As the Impala pulled away, Castiel’s cell rang. The caller came up as ‘Plains Insurance,’ which was the code used by Sergeant Turner.

“Hello,” he said. “Lovely weather today.” This indicated he was safe to talk, whereas saying something like, ‘it’s safe to talk’ meant they were definitely being overheard.

“Well enjoy that Spring sunshine while you get your ass over here. Captain wants a report.”

Castiel assured Sergeant Turner he could be there within the hour then hurried to his cover apartment to shower and shave. There was no way he was going in front of the Captain looking like he’d slept in his car.

Captain Zachariah had a tiny spot of egg yolk on his tie and a spot of grease on his shirt cuff. At least someone had eaten breakfast this morning.

“Officer Krushnic! How goes the case?”

“Well, I think. I have a suspect that showed guilty knowledge and has a cache of weapons in the trunk of his car.”

Captain Zachariah leaned forward across his desk. “Do tell.”

“White male, about seventeen.”

“Seventeen.” The Captain shook his head and made a tut-tut sound with his tongue. “Killer kids. What is this world coming to? Still, it should be easy to charge him as an adult. Even those bleeding hearts down at Legal Aid hate cannibals.”

Castiel had no response. He hated to picture the beautiful teen in prison. Still, if he was their guy then he belonged there, or maybe in a secure psychiatric facility. Perhaps he could talk to the DA when the time came.

“Close to an arrest?”

“It’s early days. There may be an occult angle and more people involved. He said some things about his father I’d like to follow up.”

“Cannibal coven.” The Captain sighed. “Exactly the kind of story papers like _The Courier_ love.” He walked to one of the photos on his wall, tapping it lightly. “Officer Krushnic, were you aware that my brother-in-law is a District Attorney?”

“No Captain, I was not aware of that.”

“Well he is. Lost a big homicide case once because he couldn’t convince the jury that we’d investigated other suspects.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “You can imagine what a tense Christmas we had that year.” He stopped laughing and his beady eyes seemed to bore into Castiel. “That’s not going to be the case here, is it?”

Castiel shifted nervously. “At the moment I only have the one suspect.”

The Captain smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. “So round up some others. Interrogate the local scumbags. Show we did our due diligence. Got it?”

Castiel nodded. “Right. Due diligence.”

* * *

 

“We need to talk,” Sam said as Dean pulled out of the farmhouse drive. He’d tried to work up his nerve all morning and they were running out of time.

“This about that girl whose dad’s a cop? Dean asked. “Cause I’m all for you making friends, but cozying up to her is not flying under the radar, Sammy.”

“It’s not about Gwen.”

“Is this like, The Talk?” Dean looked panicked. “I figured you learned everything in sex ed class or the internet.”

“Relax, Dean. I know everything I need to.” He turned to the window. “And a few things I wish I didn’t,” he muttered under his breath.

“Well all jokin’ aside, if you got questions I’ll do what I can. Dad wasn’t exactly Mr. Forthcoming on the subject if you get my drift.”

“Listen,” Sam licked his lips, his mouth feeling parched. “Are you—have you ever been attracted to guys?”

The car swerved slightly and Dean’s jaw tensed but he didn’t look over. “I thought you liked Gwen.”

“You can like more than one sex, Dean.”

“Well, yeah.” Dean chewed a lip. “Look, if you like guys, that’s a perfectly natural… what I’m saying is…it’s okay if you’re…if you sometimes—“

“I read your notebook,” Sam blurted.

“You did.” Dean’s head tilted back. It was his defensive pose.

“Yeah. And I am so sorry that things got this bad. If you didn’t have to look after me, if everything I did didn’t cost money—”

“You can forget that kind of talk right now, Sammy.” Dean pulled up in front of the school, parked, and turned to face his brother. “Let’s not get all chick-flick here, okay? Yes, things are tight since Dad died. But I’m the older brother, so I take care of you. That’s how it works. End of story. You need to focus on school. In a few years you’ll be going to some big college and this whole mess will be like a bad dream. Trust me on this.”

Sam shook his head and pulled the poker money from his pocket. Dean would have to wait until after school to bitch him out and he might not go to ‘work’ if he had it.

“Look, don’t be mad, but I won this playing cards with some guys from school. I didn’t cheat, and they can all afford the loss.” He nudged Dean’s arm with the money. “Take it.”

Dean counted the money. “Damn, Sammy. There’s like, a hundred’n fifty bucks here.”

“Yeah.” Sam opened the car door. “Pick me up from the public library at 4:00. I’m gonna research our monster. Just, be careful, okay? Stay safe.” He hurried into the building, leaving Dean confused and gripping a fistful of cash.

* * *

 

At the division car impound Castiel grabbed his badge, switched his Lincoln for a little green Jetta then drove to the school where Dean had dropped the kid. His badge got him a meeting with the principal. Chuck Shurley was a small, scruffy-faced man with watery blue eyes and a corduroy sport jacket.

“Good morning,” Mr. Shurley glanced at the badge and ID, “Officer Krushnic. What can I do for you?” They sat at a small seating area, Mr. Shurley’s desk to his back instead of between them. Castiel assumed this layout was intended to put students and their parents at ease.

“I’m trying to identify a young man who attends this school. He’s Caucasian, lanky build, shaggy hair.” He remembered Sam’s comment in the kitchen of the farmhouse. “Turning fourteen soon.”

The Principal laughed. “That’s half our kids.”

Smiling, the principal seemed nurturing and friendly. Castiel could imagine young people liking Mr. Shurley.

“He goes by Sam,” Castiel said. “Probably likes research. Spends time at the library. Gets dropped off and picked up by a man driving a black 1967 Impala.”

“You’re describing Sam Winchester.” Shurley’s smile faded. “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

Castiel was reminded of a how the original inhabitants of Missouri, the Niuachi, had associated the bear with protection. Castiel had no wish to evoke the bear in Mr. Shurley.

“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “What can you tell me about him?”

“Let’s see.” Shurley walked to his desk and hit some buttons on a keyboard, bringing up a file. “He’s bright. On track to finish in the top five percent of his class. New to the city. He wasn’t with us last year.”

“Any special friends?”

“He’d friendly and well-liked. No complaints from teachers or students. Although I see he’s not registered in any after-school activities.” Shurley scratched at his jaw. “Tall for his age,” he muttered to himself. “Wonder how he is at basketball. Our team could use better defense.”

“Where can I find him now?”

Shurley brought up Sam’s class schedule. “Study break for the next twenty minutes. Check the library.” His jaw tensed and Castiel imagined Mr. Shurley could be very stubborn. “But if you intend to interrogate him or remove him from school property, we’re gonna have a problem.”

Castiel smiled. “No sir. I won’t even speak to him. Purely observational.”

A quick peek confirmed the identification as Castiel watched Sam patiently explain integers to a younger student.

He headed back to the station intending to do some background research on the family, but an hour and forty minutes later he was still weeding through files on John Eric Winchester, father of Dean and Sam. John’s wife, Mary Sandra Winchester, born Mary Campbell, had died in a suspected arson. Dean would have been five and Sam would have been a baby. The arson may have been a trigger, because after that John Winchester’s criminal record began—drunk and disorderliness, DUIs, assaults. He was even a suspect in a few disappearances. Maybe John Winchester had killed Mary, and burned the house to cover the murder. Maybe he’d become obsessed by the occult, killing people and raising Dean as an accomplice. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened. If Dean had told the truth about his father dying last year, that may have triggered the recent killings.

Castiel thought of Sam and paused in the midst of his report. If he mentioned Sam then Child Protective Services would have to be called in. Legally, Dean wasn’t old enough to be raising a kid by himself, and even if he were, and wasn’t a suspect in multiple homicides, CPS wouldn’t approve a guardian whose source of income was sex work. Castiel frowned. CPS would’ve taken him from his own mother if they’d known about her job. Sam seemed happy and he was doing well in school. He wasn’t in immediate danger, and having him apprehended might cause Dean to disappear—maybe to that sort-of-uncle he’d mentioned. Kansas, wasn’t it? Dean said he’d taught him about cars.

Castiel spent another hour looking into John Winchester’s activities in Kansas until he narrowed it down. ‘Uncle Bobby’ was likely Robert Singer, owner of Singer Salvage Yard in Sioux Falls. If Dean disappeared at least they had a place to look now. He finished his report, choosing not to mention Sam, and removed the page of his notebook where he’d recorded the boy’s details and his visit to the school.

“I hear you’ve got a suspect.”

Castiel slipped the crumpled paper into his pocket as he looked up to see Sergeant Turner smiling down at him. The older man passed him a cup of coffee.

“Yes, I do.” Castiel took a sip. “We may be looking at occult killings. He showed Sergeant Turner the files on John Winchester, explaining about him and his current suspect, Dean. He didn’t mention Sam.

Turner picked up the mugshot of John Winchester. “Want me to get the uniform boys to ask around? See if anyone’s seen him, alive or dead?”

Castiel nodded. He’d also scraped up a picture of Dean from a yearbook in Lawrence, Kansas. John had lived there for over a year and Castiel figured the boys attended school. There were only five high schools in Lawrence, three of them public. Castiel focused on the two that posted yearbooks online and was soon printing Dean Winchester’s school photo. His hair was shorter, likely the influence of his father. Records showed John was former military. Suddenly the banter about Sam’s hair had a context. Castiel tucked the picture into his wallet for reference.

“You going back out tonight?” Turner asked.

Castiel nodded. “I need evidence, and I need to confirm whether anyone else is involved. Also, the Captain wants me to check out other suspects. Maybe this Alastair guy who works for Fergus Crowley.” He tapped another stack on his desk. “He’s got a record. Broke a woman’s arm and assaulted her with a—” he broke off, disgusted by the details. “Well, it was a pretty bad assault.”

Turner frowned. “Alastair? I remember him. Creepy son of a bitch. I wouldn’t put it past him to eat a body.” He slapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and gave it a heavy pat. “Keep at it, kid. You’ll bust this thing wide open.”

Sergeant Turner looked across the room to where a heavyset man with close-cropped grey hair had just entered. “Campbell, you lazy bastard! I found case files signed out to you left in the photocopy room yesterday!”

“Screw you, Rufus!” Campbell growled. “I wasn’t near the copy room yesterday. My granddaughter came by and I took her to lunch at—” He let out a disgusted puff of air. “Look who I’m talking to. What would you know about grandkids? You got no life outside of poker and drinking.”

“I’m damn good at poker and drinking I’ll have you know!” Rufus shouted at Campbell’s retreating back. “Hows about you get good at putting files away?”

Not wanting to anger the Sergeant, Castiel put his own files away then grabbed his Lincoln, and headed to the strip. He kept his badge in his jacket in case he needed to drop his cover. He also kept the photo of Dean Winchester.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean picked Sam up from the library at 4:00pm and took him to a discount shoe store in a strip mall. Sam settled on a pair of affordable off-brand sneakers.

“You need stuff, you gotta tell me, okay?” He grabbed Sam by the shoulders, barely having to bend his neck at all to make eye contact. “We can’t have your worn out shoes drawing attention. Got it?”

“Sure, Dean.”

The two brothers headed to the grocery store and stocked up on essentials, including a pile of rabbit food for Sam. While Sam compared brands of something called ‘salad toppers’ Dean slipped away to look at a shelf of books. He bought one called _An Introduction to The Rule of Law_. He slipped the receipt inside and zipped it into his jacket before returning to find Sam looking thoughtfully at kale and broccoli. Dean didn’t know why Sammy bothered. All those vegetables tasted like dirt to him.

After groceries Dean topped up the gas tank and they headed home. Sam pulled a book from his backpack as they drove. “I think I might have an idea about our monster.”

“Yeah? Lay it on me.” Dean could use all the leads he could get. His first night on the job had been profitable, and taught him some stuff about his sexuality, but it hadn’t gotten him closer to solving the case. His father wouldn’t be impressed.

Sam opened the book, a text so rarely used that the glue of the spine cracked. “It’s called a two-face.”

Dean perked up. “Like the Batman villain?”

“Not quite. This one’s a monster described in Cheyenne, Sioux, and Omaha legends. A kind of ogre that passes as human, only it’s got a second face on the back of its head.”

“So, Voldemort in the first Harry Potter.” Dean glanced into the rearview mirror for any familiar cars before turning off the highway.

“Yeah. Only the second face has eyes that hypnotize or paralyze you. Stories say it kidnaps and eats people. When it kills it sprouts spines on its arms.” Sam turned the book to show Dean the illustration.

Dean glanced quickly at the illustration and smiled. “The cone-shaped stab wounds. Nice work, Sammy!”

“It’s Sam.”

“Whatever. That book say how to kill it?” Dean swerved around a pothole.

Sam looked glum. “No.”

“Don’t sweat it. Decapitation usually works.” He smacked Sam in the chest. “This calls for a celebration. Whaddya say we go home and finish off that pizza?”

“If it’s all the same to you I think I’ll have salad.”

“Fine by me. But don’t complain if I’m always bigger and stronger.” He smiled. “Protein is key.”

Sam laughed. “And fruit and vegetables are the key to not getting scurvy.” He put the book away as the Impala pulled around the farmhouse. “You not going to work tonight, are you?”

“Have to. Monster ain’t gonna kill itself.”

“I mean the sex work.”

“Oh.” Dean leaned against the steering wheel and looked out at the weedy field. “Look, Sam, like I said, worrying about money’s my job, okay? You worry about school, do a bit of research, maybe? Sound fair?”

“No.”

“Too bad, ‘cause I’m the older brother and I say this is how it’s gonna be.” Dean changed the subject. “If you were a two-face how would you hide?”

Sam looked thoughtful as they approached the back door. “I’d wear a hat to cover up the extra face.” He turned, noticing his brother was staring at the grass near the window. “Something wrong?”

Dean frowned. “Something tramped down the grass.”

Sam looked tense. “You think it’s the two-face?”

“I dunno.” Dean circled around to the trunk and opened it. He tossed Sam a machete. “Just in case, keep this handy. Text me if you see or hear anything suspicious. And sharpen the scissors. Your hair’s got a date with them when I get home.”

* * *

 

Sam watched the Impala pull out of the drive. His brother was stubborn, and Sam should have expected him to shut down any talk about his new source of cash. He’d given it a lot of thought and his biggest worry was for Dean’s safety—physical and emotional. He hated the way Dean pulled rank with this older brother bullshit. If Dean wouldn’t talk to him like an adult he’d just have to find things out on his own. He pulled out his cell and called Kevin Tran.

“Hey, Kev. Can you give me a lift?”

He could hear the teen’s long-suffering sigh. “It’s called a learners permit, so no. I can’t legally drive without a licensed driver in the front passenger seat so unless you want my mom coming along you’re out of luck. Try Harry. Doesn’t he own a van?”

“I thought Ed owned the van.”

“Hey, are they a couple? I’ve started feeling like a third wheel when I hang out with them.”

“I don’t think so,” Sam said. “Or if they are, they don’t know it yet.”

“As long as I’m not the last to know,” Kevin said. “I hate that.”

“You’re definitely not. See you tomorrow.” Sam looked at his phone. He couldn’t exactly tail Dean on a city bus. He needed to call Harry. Or Ed. Maybe both of them.

* * *

 

Gabriel loved it when the diner was busy. Meg was here with a handsome specimen, Jimmy something. Rumor had it he was into feet. Marv’s dividend check had arrived so he was now enjoying being seen with Ruby as they lounged together at a center table. Low self esteem scores again. Frank was at his usual spot, hunched over his newspaper clippings. The guy was bat shit crazy but he wasn’t wrong about the post office. Maybe, Gabriel thought as he bussed a table, he could redirect the hunter’s interest toward those bloodsuckers. 'Gloom of night' my ass.

Gabriel spotted the blonde with the pixie cut as soon as she stepped into the diner, headed for the bathroom. He waited until she returned then snagged her by the arm.

“Hey Katie, got a minute?”

“Yeah, sure.” Kate followed him into the little storage room, surrounded by takeout cups and bags of coffee. “What’s up?”

Gabriel held out an envelope. “I need you to take this.”

She accepted it and peered inside, looking wary. “Gabe, there’s like,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “five hundred bucks in here, and a…a bus ticket to Denver?”

“A friend of mine’s gonna meet you there. He’s got a basement you can use for your ‘special woman time.’ I just need you out of town.”

Kate folded the envelope in half and put it in a pocket of her puffy jacket. “What’s going on?” She frowned, her forehead wrinkling. “Am I in trouble?”

Gabriel wrapped an arm around her and rubbed her shoulder. “You? Nah. You’re awesome. But there’s a hunter sniffing around and they have a ‘kill first ask questions never’ policy. I’d feel better if you were in Denver.”

Kate bit her lip and nodded. “When do you want me gone?”

“Pronto.” Gabriel held up a set of keys. “Take my car. Go to the bus station. Text me to let me know you made it safe. I’ll square it with Meg and the girls.”

“Your car?”

Gabe shrugged. “I can pick it up later. Get gone girly-o.”

Kate planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re the best, Gabe. I won’t forget this.”

He watched her leave and hoped he’d managed to get at least one innocent bystander out of the way before the fur started to fly.

* * *

 

Dean exited the Impala and walked to Wabash. He leaned against the community center and watched as Meg and Jim shared a coffee at Gabriel’s diner. Near the end of the building Hippie Chong was talking heatedly with an older guy wearing a grey hat and army jacket.

Dean turned back to the diner and told himself that the cold lump in his chest wasn’t jealousy. Jim had been a job, and dreams were just random shit his brain came up with. They didn’t mean anything. That twisted feeling in his stomach was just the last of the pizza digesting.

“New here, sweet thing?”

Dean looked up to see the guy who’d been talking to Hippie Chong.

“You looking for a date?” Dean asked. The dude gave him the creeps but that might mean he was exactly what Dean was looking for, monster-wise.

“Name’s Alastair,” He smiled, showing teeth like flint corn. “I work for Crowley, you heard’a him?”

“Maybe.”

“Come work for us. You’ll have a better class of business and no more cold street corners.”

“Let me think on it.” Dean strategized how to get the hat off the guy. He was big and muscled. Was it worth the risk to just snatch it? That might lead to a problem even if he wasn’t the two-face.

Alastair leaned in close, smelling him, then brought a hand up to Dean’s jaw. “Why don’t you show me what that pretty mouth can do. Consider it an audition.” His grip tightened and he pushed a thumb into Dean’s mouth.

Well, Dean though, it’s now or never. He put a hand on the back of Alastair’s head, slipping his hand under the hat and feeling around for anything other than skull. To anyone watching they were just two guys making out against the community center. Alastair pulled back, smiling and wiped his wet thumb on Dean’s cheek.

“Well aren’t you a little firecracker.” He leered and tilted his head toward a black Cadillac across the street. “Let’s go for a drive.”

“Sorry. I’m waiting on a regular. Another time, maybe.”

Alastair produced a business card with the address of a club nearby. “Come by Crowley’s and ask for Alastair. I’ll set you up right.”

Dean watched him leave then leaned over and spit, trying to rid the taste of the man’s thumb from his mouth.

“Hey, you copacetic?” He looked up to see Hippy Chong, like a concerned houseplant.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“That was Alastair.” Chong scratched his beard. “You work for him? Or Crowley?”

“Nah. Strictly independent.” Dean wondered if he could keep it that way while he looked into this Crowley guy. Alastair might be scouting victims for the two-face.

“Good,” Hippy Chong said. “That dude is heavy.”

Dean nodded. “You said it, man.”

* * *

 

As he said goodbye to Meg and left Gabriel’s diner Castiel saw Alastair looming over Dean. He walked to his car, fighting the urge to slam the older man into the asphalt. He reminded himself of what he’d found in Dean’s car trunk. Anyone who had a cache of weapons like that could handle themselves with a pimp. Still, he needed to get Dean alone and talking, to get leads on who else might be involved.

He slipped into the Lincoln and waited until Alastair left before he pulled up. Dean leaned in the driver’s side window as soon as Castiel lowered it.

“Well if it isn’t Hot Puzzle Guy.” He tentatively ran his fingertips across the arm of Castiel’s grey sweater. “Lookin’ good, Jim.”

Castiel had to remember not to call him Dean. “You too, Robert. Are you available tonight by any chance?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, playfully. “Why? Got a new puzzle?”

“No, but they’re showing Raiders of The Lost Ark at the Drive-In. Same deal as last time? Four hundred until nine?” Now that Dean was a viable suspect the Captain wouldn’t care how much Castiel spent on him.

“Raiders? I’m all yours.” Dean smirked as he walked around the front and then slid into the car. “But try not get jealous if I glance at Indy once in a while.”


	8. Chapter 8

Crowley glared across his desk at the monster sitting in his best guest chair. Well, perhaps sitting was too generous a term for the way its body contorted to allow the face at the back of its head to gawk at him. Crowley assessed the sharp-toothed thing dispassionately. Few creatures could harm a demon, and he didn’t think this beast’s hypno-act would work on him. Still, his visitor had a taste for human, and Crowley had grown fond of his current meatsuit. He’d picked it up in New York, a British ex-pat hung like a Clydesdale, and he simply adored the accent.

“Well, well well,” he chided. “Such a mess you’ve made.” Crowley laced his fingers. “When I leased you a patch of my territory to graze in, it was with the assumption that you were _competent_ at it.” He let some red bleed into his eyes and raised his voice. “Instead you’ve attracted the police and a hunter.”

“If it’s a matter of money—“ The voice was scratchy, like an old record.

“It’s always a matter of money,” Crowley hissed. “But I also have a business to run and you’re drawing heat down on all of us. Eat the homeless for a while. Eat the hunter, if you like. But stop leaving goddamned bodies where the police can find them!”

“I thought the river would take them away.” It sounded almost petulant.

“Apparently not.” Crowley pursed his lips. “There is one other matter. You wouldn’t happen to have seen my knife? Bone handle,” he held up his hands, palms facing one another, “’bout yea long. Kurdish inscription. Last seen in the possession of Rachel Nave.”

“Do I know her?”

“You should. You bloody well ate her!”

“Which one was she?”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Blonde. Petite. Whore. Ring any bells?”

“I saw no knife.”

“Then our talk is at an end.” He pressed a button and Alastair entered. “My friend will see you out. Payment expected as usual, plus 20% for the inconvenience.”

“That is acceptable,” the creature rasped, lurching from the chair.

“It damn well better be,” Crowley muttered. If he’d learned anything in his rise to power it was that you couldn’t let any low-level monster bollocks distract from the day-to-day of soul collection.

* * *

 

Sam stretched in the backseat of Harry’s (or was it Ed’s?) van, his muscles sore. Finding Dean had taken forever. He’d joined Harry and Ed where the highway met the road to the farmhouse and convinced them to cruise around Independence and Wabash, listening to Rage Against The Machine, until he spotted Dean.

“Why are you following this guy?” Harry asked. The suspicion he threw toward Sam was evident.

“It’s personal,” Sam said. “I don’t wanna get into it.”

“Fine. Be all mysterious,” Harry rolled his eyes. “But you’re coming with us when we investigate the junior high next week. Word is the place is haunted by the ghost of a hot math teacher. For real. Your phone got video capability?”

“Uh huh.” Sam wasn’t really listening, too riveted by watching his brother make out with some stranger outside the community center. It was one thing to suspect Dean was doing sex work, but actually seeing it was more shocking than he’d expected. Then the guy left and moments later a gold Lincoln pulled up and Dean got inside.

“Follow that car,” Sam ordered, pointing to the vehicle as it pulled out onto Wabash. He slipped a hand into his set of brass knuckles and hefted the backpack containing the machete. If anybody pulled something on Dean, Sam was ready.

“Follow that car?” Harry grinned at Ed. “I always wanted someone to say that.”

“Hell yeah.” Ed agreed. “We’re like Steve McQueen in Bullitt.”

“Don’t lose them.” Sam leaned forward, trying to peer inside the other vehicle but dreading what he might see. They drove south for a few miles and then pulled into a drive-in.

Ed beamed. “They’re playing Raiders.”

Harry turned to Sam. “Admission’s ten bucks apiece. You want us to go in?”

Sam thought to his dwindling cash. “Can I owe you?”

Harry pulled his wallet out. “Tell you what, pay me in poker tips. I got to up my game and you’re like, Rounders-good.”

“Park somewhere behind them,” Sam ordered, his eyes glued to the long car.

They pulled into the last row, giving him a good view of the Lincoln, but Sam needed to be closer. Dean was putting himself in harm’s way and needed backup. Sam wasn’t going to lose another relative, even if he had to decapitate every monster in Missouri.

“Don’t leave without me.” Sam slipped from the van and ran toward the car, hunched low.

“You owe us for popcorn and drinks, too!” Harry shouted after him.

* * *

 

The drive-in was busier than Dean expected, thrumming with voices and smelling like popcorn. They chose a spot toward the rear of the lot. Jim fiddled with the radio and soon the sound of coming attractions filled the interior. He turned it down so it was background noise. Dean folded the hand rest so the front seats formed a bench. Then he reclined his seat and Jim did likewise.

Dean threaded their fingers together. Jim’s hand was wet, almost like he was nervous. “This okay?”

Jim nodded, his face illuminated by a set of headlights as a van pulled past them.

“How long since you moved from Illinois?” Dean asked, his mind dwelling on the mostly-empty closet and dresser in Jim’s apartment. He had two jobs to do here, and staring up at Jim’s pretty face wasn’t one of them. He needed to pump Jim for information. Some part of his brain—the part that was forever fourteen—thought that ‘pump Jim’ was a hilarious and interesting visual.

“Almost a month.”

“You move for work or…?” Dean let the question hang.

“Yes. I work for the city. It’s pretty boring.”

Dean pictured Jim in a suit and tie, sitting at a desk in some city office. He liked the image and didn’t think it sounded boring at all. Boring was sitting on your heels in a muddy gulch waiting for his father to flush a crocotta toward him.

“Let’s talk about something fun,” Jim suggested. “Anything but my work.”

Dean grinned. “If you could have any superpower, what would it be?”

Jim looked thoughtful. “Flight _sounds_ nice, but unless I flew high I’d be spotted, and it gets very cold at high altitudes. Frostbite would be a serious risk. Mindreading might be better.”

Dean shivered and moved closer. “Not for me. I don’t want to hear the creepy shit people think all day.”

“I don’t know.” Jim’s eyes seemed darker in the low light. “Knowing what people were thinking could be beneficial sometimes.” He bit his lip and then licked it. “My turn to ask a question?” When Dean nodded he asked, “Most embarrassing moment?”

Dean grinned. “Ugh! So many to choose from.” He wasn’t kidding. There’d been one time, in Mexico, hunting a vetala, when the cheap takeout he’d eaten had forced him to make several trips to the little hunter’s room. Luckily serpentine vampires that take human form also feel the call of nature and Dean had made the kill. He frowned. Every story that occurred to him involved hunting something. Oh, maybe not.

“Okay, there was this one time.” He blushed. “My father and brother and I were staying in a motel in Des Moines and the two of them went into town to grab some grub and I stayed behind.” To clean the guns and load shotgun shells with salt he could‘ve added but didn’t. “And I was young and dumb and full of...stuff.”

“Oh.” Jim’s smile looked bright. “I think I see where this story is going.”

“Yeah, well hindsight’s twenty-twenty, okay?” Dean rubbed his thumb across the back of Jim’s hand. “So as soon as they were gone I got undressed. And I had the baby oil out, and my best porn mag, and a pair of—“ Dean stopped.

“Of?” Jim looked curious, not judgmental, but Dean gritted his teeth and rolled until his face was hidden in Jim’s shoulder. He inhaled and tried to push his words out in one go, somewhat muffled. “Pinksatinpanties.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim said, his tone teasing. “Did you say pig sand and patties?”

Dean lifted his face, his eyebrows raised as if to say, Really? You’re gonna make me repeat myself?

“Let’s put a pin in that.” Jim wrapped an arm around Dean, cradling him against his chest. “Go on with your story.”

“So I’m in progress, and they must’ve parked around back because suddenly I hear the key in the door, and I,” Dean started to laugh. “I bolt for the bathroom. I move _fast_. We’re talkin’ lightspeed.”

“Did you make it?”

“Yes and no. I made it to the bathroom, but I’m buck naked. All my clothes are in the other room, along with the uh, evidence.”

Jim’s chest shook against Dean’s cheek as he laughed. It was a warm, secure feeling Dean wouldn’t have minded having more often. “What did you do?”

“Took the world’s quickest cold shower and threw on a towel.”

“Did they call you on it?”

Dean smiled nostalgically. “Nah. Sammy was first through the door so he set the food on top of the magazine and asked Dad to grab some ice from the machine outside. Gave me time to clean house before he got back.” Jim ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, which was both soothing and arousing. “It was damn close, though. Thank God Sammy had my back. I’d’ve never heard the end of it from Dad for lettin’ my guard down. He was former military. Kinda took his parenting style from basic training.”

“Sounds like you’re close with your brother.”

“I am.” Dean looked up at the screen. Cartoon snacks were suggesting everyone go to the lobby and get themselves a treat.

“Should we get some snacks?” Jim asked, noticing Dean glance at the ad.

“Sure,” Dean said. “If you want to.”

“Might be good to have.” They exited the car and Jim took Dean’s hand as they walked to the canteen. They returned laden with foil-wrapped cheeseburgers, sodas, and popcorn.

They sat in the car, eating, and looking at one another more than at the screen. Dean leaned over the foil wrap so he wouldn’t get burger all over Jim’s car. As Jim moaned like a pornstar around his first bite of burger Dean found himself missing the closeness they’d shared earlier and berated himself for letting things get so intimate. He needed to get his head back in the game and feel Jim out as a suspect. ‘Feel Jim out,’ the snotty perv in his head repeated.

“Okay, my turn to ask a question,” Dean said. “What’s your darkest fantasy?”

“Darkest fantasy?” Jim sucked melted cheese from his lip, making it puffy. Dean couldn’t look away. “Do you mean sexual fantasy?”

“Whatever.” Dean enjoyed the greasy taste of his meal and the way the lights from outside panned across the planes of Jim’s face.

“Well,” Jim’s eyes were glued on the half-eaten cheeseburger in his hands, “sometimes I think about uh, vigorous sex?”

“Rough stuff?” Dean found his curiosity piqued. Jim seemed so mild-mannered he had to remind himself that the guy was his suspect in multiple murders. Although looking at him now, so shy, it was difficult to believe him guilty. But if sexual violence was one of Jim’s kinks maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched. He stuffed the remainder of his cheeseburger into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

“Maybe a little.”

Dean reminded himself that Jim was paying for this ‘date’ and the only reason they weren’t having rough sex right now was down to him. While the thought of having sex with Jim had made him ill with nerves before, the idea wasn’t as upsetting now. He wondered what that said about him.

“Giving or receiving?”

Jim covered his face with his free hand. “Receiving?” He phrased it as a question, as if he were asking for approval and Dean saw him peek between his fingers.

“Say the word and I’ll have my wicked way with you.” He winked to let Jim know he was only teasing. Kind of. Maybe not.

“How about you?” Jim asked. “Darkest fantasy?” He finished his burger.

Dean shifted closer and took Jim’s hand in his. “I dunno. Yours sounds interesting. Throw in a safeword, maybe?”

“Consensual sex with a safeword.” Jim raised an eyebrow. “We’re not going very dark, are we?”

“Alright. You want dark? I can go dark.” Dean took in a deep breath and looked down at their hands. It was a risk, but he needed to clear his suspicions. So he could… what? Focus on Jim as something other than a suspect? Maybe. Dean bit the bullet. “Under what circumstances would you eat human flesh?”

“Human…flesh.” Jim did that adorable head-tilt thing but Dean felt like something had shifted, putting a wall between them. He wished for those mind-reading powers they’d talked about.

Dean pushed. “Yeah. I’m not talkin’ processed Soylent Green crap, I’m talking full-on Hannibal Lecter.”

“If I felt like committing cannibalism I’d check myself into a mental ward.” Jim glanced down at their hands then out at the screen, where the credits for Raiders were starting. “I suppose that makes me square.”

“Nah. Using words like ‘square’ makes you square.”

They both laughed.

“So never?” Dean pressed, not ready to let the issue go. “Not even if the plane with your rugby team crashed in the mountains?”

Jim shook his head. “I’d prefer to starve to death.”

Dean felt relief wash over him like a cool drink on a hot day. He thought about his dream, with Jim eating a foot, and couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. He lay his head against Jim, who released his hand but put an arm around his shoulders.

“How about you?”

Dean shook his head. “I’m no saint. I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I’d load up on bbq sauce and make the best of a bad situation.”

Jim’s body seemed to tense. “I guess I’ll have to keep my wits about me.”

“Hey!” Dean smacked Jim’s chest playfully but snuggled closer. “I’d eat a dead guy to keep from starving, but I wouldn’t Jeffrey Dahmer someone.”

“That’s a relief.”

They watched Indy throw Satipo the idol, claw his way out of a pit, run from a giant boulder, and escape angry Hovitos by leaping into a seaplane. Dean loved this opening. It was a tiny movie all by itself. About 35 minutes later he decided to take a risk he’d been considering since the movie started.

“Hey Jim?”

“Hmmm?” Jim’s bright blue eyes were glued to the screen where Marion and Indy were being chased through the Cairo bazaar.

“Wanna make out a little?”

“What?” His attention turned to Dean who shifted, moving closer to Jim’s lips.

“Well, you said you weren’t sure what you liked.” Dean rubbed his thumb against Jim’s jaw. The bristles felt kinda nice. “I wondered if you’d like this.” He watched Jim’s face, looking for any sign of disinterest or hesitancy, but saw none. His eyes were wide, and his pupils large, which was a good sign, he guessed. Dean leaned in.

Jim’s lips were soft and warm, and responded by opening slightly. Dean prodded forward with his tongue and Jim let out a whimper that set Dean’s pulse pounding. He ran his hands into Jim’s messy hair and felt a rush when he encountered nothing monsterish. No extra faces on this guy. He poured every ounce of his relief into tasting and exploring Jim’s mouth. The kiss seemed to go on and on and on. When they turned back to the movie Indy and Marion were busting out of the Well of Souls.

* * *

 

Sam was bored. Cold and bored. He switched the machete to his left hand and tucked his right hand under his arm to warm it. Dean and the guy in the car had been cuddling for like, forty minutes, and then they’d kissed for what felt like forever. This was not at all how Sam had imagined prostitution. In fact, he was pretty sure Dean was doing it wrong.

Sam frowned as he watched his brother making out with the guy in the Lincoln. Maybe he’d gotten his wires crossed and this was a date-date and not a work date. Still, if this guy was a suspect in the murders he was taking his sweet time attacking Dean. He looked longingly over his shoulder back toward the van. He had zero interest in watching his brother score, but if he left now and Dean got attacked he’d never forgive himself. He set the machete on the ground, stuffed both hands into his pockets and split his time between checking on his brother and watching Nazis get their faces melted off. As the credits rolled he stood, hunched, waiting for the circulation to return to his legs. Dean and the guy in the Lincoln were smiling and talking. He could hear car engines starting, which he took as his cue to head back to the van.

Inside, Harry and Ed were bickering over which Raiders sequel was superior.

“Back me up, Sam,” Harry insisted. “Last Crusade is the only true Indy sequel.”

“I liked Temple of Doom,” Ed insisted. “It’s a brilliant send-up of Gunga Din!”

“How can you?” Harry shouted. “It’s a trainwreck! And it’s got the most annoying characters in the series!”

“Guys,” Sam tried to interject, but was ignored. Around them, cars were starting to leave. Sam checked the time on his phone. His brother still had to pick up the Impala. If they headed directly for the highway Sam could beat him to the farmhouse by a good ten or fifteen minutes. Provided they didn’t get trapped behind all these cars.

“Last Crusade is not funny,” Ed challenged.

“Not funny?” Harry adopted a thick Scottish accent. “We named the _dog_ Indiana.”

Sam leaned forward and snapped his fingers between them. “Guys? We’re done here. Let’s go!”

Harry and Ed shrugged as if neither of them could understand Sam’s lack of culture.

“Head for the highway” he prodded.

“Yes, Miss Daisy.” Harry pulled out and headed for the highway.

* * *

 

As he watched cars pulling out of the drive-in Castiel was chiding himself for making out with his prime suspect. Dean seemed so friendly that he had to keep reminding himself about the boarded up house and the trunk full of murder tools.

Leaning against him, Dean was fed, relaxed, and happy. Maybe it wasn’t too late to backtrack on his ‘I’d rather starve to death than eat human beings’ position and have Dean see him as a confidant, possibly even a potential accomplice. He went over his options as they started the car and exited the drive-in.

“I’ve been thinking about your earlier question,” he said as they headed north, “ and I think I’d like to change my answer.”

“How so?” Dean asked. They’d broken their embrace to drive but Dean had kept a hand on his thigh. Castiel wasn’t sure if Dean was simply doing his job or if they’d established a level of intimacy. He guessed he’d find out.

Castiel turned onto Independence Ave. “Maybe I was too hasty. Humans supposedly taste like beef or pork, and I eat both of those. And pigs are more intelligent than dogs and chimpanzees. So maybe I’m being speciesist.”

“You think?” Dean sounded tense.

Castiel pulled into the parking lot outside Gabriel’s diner and shifted to face Dean. “I can’t say I’m not curious. But if I _was_ going to eat human flesh I’d want to know ahead of time. I wouldn’t want to find out after the fact.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” Dean slid closer. “I had a good time tonight. So, thanks for that.” He leaned over and put a quick peck on his cheek, as if he thought the affection might not be welcome. “Night, Jim. Drive safe, okay?”

Castiel watched Dean saunter up Wabash toward the black Impala. What did it say about him that the most successful date of his life thus far had been with a sex worker who was the main suspect in multiple murders?


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel lay on his bed like a piece of seaweed tossed ashore by the surf. Five orgasms had left him sweaty and boneless, but they hadn’t put a dent in his worry. A dispassionate review of the evidence, all of it admittedly circumstantial, pointed toward Dean as the killer. Despite this, Castiel had never fallen so hard in lust with someone before. He wanted to invite Dean over to his house—his real house—for dinner, and almost certainly breakfast. But giving into this weakness would blow his cover and the investigation. Hoping his recklessness may be the result of sexual tension, he spent a significant portion of the weekend masturbating.

While his logic was convinced of Dean’s guilt, and therefore of his inappropriateness as a sexual partner, his imagination had other ideas. He fantasized about blowing Dean against the cracked wooden cabinets of the run-down farmhouse. He pictured pushing him onto the coffee table in his cover apartment and opening him up with his hand until he was begging for more. He imagined Dean taking him from behind in the bedroom, the headboard slamming aggressively into the taupe wall. He thought of Dean wearing those pink satin panties he’d mentioned. It was all alarmingly effective.

He stumbled to the bathroom on rubbery legs and took a shower. He hadn’t ejaculated this often since junior high. After he toweled off he changed the sheets, throwing the mess into a pile to deal with later, and crawled into bed.

Cas wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep, but he knew he was dreaming when his laptop didn’t work. He often had lucid dreams and the failure of complex machinery was a common give-away. In the dream he tried to research for his case, but found only dating sites. Distracted by the sound of someone singing Suzie-Q, he walked into the kitchen to find Dean, making pancakes. The suspect turned and flashed his dimples at him.

“Mornin’ Cas. You want pancakes?”

Castiel nodded, noting that dream-Dean shortened his name the same way he’d switched Jimmy to Jim. He liked it. It made him wish Dean could call him Cas in real life. Which wasn’t going to happen since, by the time he learned his name, Castiel would be testifying against him in court.

Dean set a plate in front of him, and returned with coffee—black with sugar, just how he liked it.

“This is wonderful,” he said. “I haven’t had home-made pancakes in years.” Dean had made the edges golden and crispy. He tucked into the food, amazed at how his brain had reproduced the fluffy, buttery taste. He rarely had time for a sit-down breakfast, and the last time he’d had pancakes had been after a training session with Sherriff Hanscum, when he and his classmates had stopped at a Denny’s.

“That’s a shame, Cas.” Dean sat across from him, their knees touching, and poured syrup over his own pancakes. “Listen,” he said “I was thinking, if you’re not busy, we could take Sam to the planetarium.” Castiel listened, fascinated. This was a nice dream. He liked the planetarium and he bet Sam would enjoy going.

Cas washed a mouthful of sweet crunchy pancake down with warm coffee then looked across the table, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“ _Ты мне нравишься_ ” [I like you], he said. Since this was a dream there was nothing to lose in admitting it. Despite this, he added, “ _Прости_ ” [Forgive me].

“I like you too, _Дурачок_ ” [little idiot],” Dean said, the skin around his clear green eyes wrinkling with affection.

If he had ever doubted this was a dream, hearing Dean speak Russian confirmed it. Castiel savored the pleasant feeling of being a family until his alarm went off. He woke and felt a wave of disappointment. He was never going to have pancakes with Dean Winchester. In fact, right now his job was to make sure Dean Winchester ate breakfast behind bars for the rest of his life.

* * *

 

Sam sat on a milk crate, his wet head poking through a thin garbage bag.

“So help me Dean, if you screw this up I’ll—”

“Relax, it’s a haircut. I’m not amputating a limb.”

Sam frowned. “Was that a cannibal joke?”

“Not meant to be, but I got it on the brain lately, so who knows?” Dean combed Sam’s hair into his fingers and snipped off the ends.

“Any leads?”

“Kinda.” Dean let his face fall as he moved behind Sam, knowing his brother couldn’t see him. “Someone I met said some stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Suspicious stuff. About cannibalism.” He glared at Sam’s hair as he snipped away, trying to taper the back, which tended to get wavy. It wasn’t looking great. Maybe he should get the clippers.

“Sounds like a good suspect.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Dean got the back looking better and shifted to trim the front, but left Sam’s baby sideburns as is. A man had his pride, even if that ‘man’ was about to turn fourteen.

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

Dean sighed. Sam was great at reading tone.

“Wait, is this the guy you liked?” Sam paused, thinking. “Jim?”

“Yeah. The guy that bought the pizza.” Dean wished he could think of him as only that, but his thoughts about Jim were kind of a minefield these days. “Claimed he’s been here a month, but there’s not enough stuff at his place. It’s like a hotel.” Dean let a chunk of hair slide between his fingers and snipped off the ends.

“I assume you checked for a second face on the back of his head?” His brother looked at him through a cascade of wet hair.

“Yeah. I checked.” Dean smiled, remembering making out in the car, but suspicion still tugged at his gut. “Anything in your books confirm it has that second face all the time?”

Sam frowned. “You think maybe it doesn’t?”

Dean pulled the curl out of his brother’s bangs. How could he read with all this hair in his eyes? He cut, trying to keep the lengths even.

“Suppose the second face only pops out to feed?”

“I’ll look into it.” Sam’s forehead creased. If the kid kept worrying his forehead might crack in half.

“Let me know what you find.” Dean worked fast. Given how Sam’s hands were fidgeting he figured the kid would only tolerate this haircut for another two minutes.

* * *

 

Castiel sat at his desk, sorting through forensic reports as he ate sliders from Benny’s. Sergeant Turner had turned him onto the hole-in-the-wall diner whose tiny hamburgers were beyond delicious. He wiped a smear of ketchup from his lips and turned back to the case files. There was one element he hadn’t looked into yet. Forensics had found coconut oil on all three victims. While lots of women used it, the transfer was isolated to the areas near the missing muscle, so it may have come from the killer. Today he would identify the different ways coconut oil was sold and see if that led anywhere. He started with an internet search.

Forty minutes later, after reading about how the substance treated dandruff and dry skin, prevented high cholesterol, strengthened the immune system, and healed damaged organ tissue, he found himself considering how he might incorporate coconut oil into his own life. But knowing its many uses didn’t exactly narrow down the suspects. He was certain he’d never smelled coconut oil on Dean, but that wasn’t an indicator of innocence. Maybe he only used it as a cooking oil when he prepared the…meat.

He packed up his notes, put the files away lest he incur the wrath of Sergeant Turner, and went down to the garage where he signed out the green Jetta. He didn’t like to use the Lincoln when he might have to identify himself as a police officer. It was a small thing, but Donna Hanscum had taught him that small things mattered.

Castiel had talked with the major wholesalers of coconut oil in the city and received a list of the outlets they supplied. He started with a stop at the Culinary Centre of Kanas City, and then moved on to Williams-Sonoma. Given how risky human flesh was to obtain, he reasoned that a cannibal might want top of the line cooking products. Four hours later he’d been to every major vendor that sold coconut oil. He’d shown the picture of Dean but nobody remembered seeing him. They did, however, share a number of stories featuring customers who, in retrospect, they found highly suspicious. He wasn’t optimistic, but he’d pass along the names and descriptions to Sergeant Turner for the uniforms to run down.

He moved on to the list of vendors offering coconut oil grooming products, stopping into a cosmetology college and several beauty salons, and then moved on to drugstores.

Castiel set a tub of coconut oil scalp conditioner on the counter in front of the cosmetics clerk, a beautiful South Asian woman whose nametag identified her as Kali. She wore a silver necklace with tiny silver skull charms, which he found amusing given her namesake.

“What can you tell me about this product?”

Kali raised an eyebrow. “Have you tried it? It smells delicious and really does get rid of your dandruff.”

“Do a lot of people use it?”

The clerk shrugged. “If you consider a billion people a lot.”

Castiel couldn’t help but smile. “That’s a lot.”

“You can cook with it too, but it’s great as a hair and skin conditioner.” She grabbed a different container from the wall of products. “If you’re serious I’d try this brand first. It’s more expensive, but has fewer additives.”

“Thanks.” Castiel pulled out his photo of Dean. “Does this person look familiar to you?”

Kali looked at the photo longer than most of the people he’d spoken to did before passing it back. “I’ve seen him around. He’s a little older now. Filled out more.”

“Ever sold him coconut oil?”

She tucked a lock of dark hair behind an ear. “No. If you don’t mind my saying, he didn’t strike me as the coconut oil type. I sold him condoms, razors, and a copy of Busty Asian Beauties.”

Castiel felt an illogical pulse of jealousy. “You have this good memory for all your customers?”

She looked up at him through a fan of thick, dark lashes. “We had a little chat about whether he was old enough to buy the magazine. Plus, he’s easy to remember with a face like that. For that matter, so are you.”

Castiel’s anxiety spiked. He was never sure how to respond to interest, and usually tried to tease out some ulterior motive for it. He thanked her for her help, bought both types of coconut oil—he’d been collecting samples from all over town for the lab team to compare—and hurried from the store.

* * *

 

The afternoon before he turned fourteen Sam sat in the Impala outside a strip mall and reviewed the case files while Dean bought “secret birthday things.” Sam ran a hand through his too-short hair and wished he could do more to help Dean on the case, or with life in general. Dean pulled out all the stops to take care of him, which was more than their father had ever done.

The driver’s side door opened and Sam looked up as his brother slid behind the wheel and tossed a bag into the back seat.

When Sam glanced back at the bag Dean said, “No peeking ‘til tomorrow, Sammy, or you’ll spoil your birthday. Again.”

Sam rolled his eyes. You tear a corner off one present as a kid and get branded for life as a birthday-ruiner.

“Find anything in those files?” Dean asked.

“Maybe?” Sam pushed the stack of folders across to Dean, who pulled them into his lap. “I looked up the list of chemicals they found on the victims, and turns out it’s coconut oil. I’ve been thinking it might have been on the killer. Could help us narrow down suspects.”

“Huh. So he’d smell like coconut? Good tip.” Dean flipped through the files, reading about the oil transfer.

Sam felt sad for Dean. Dean should have someone to take care of him, too. He was clearly into Jim, but that didn’t mean Jim thought of Dean the same way. After talking Ash into hacking the internet controls on one of the school computers Sam had done some research into Dean’s new job. Based on what he’d read, some clients wanted ‘the girlfriend experience,’ meaning the sex worker would act like they were dating. That night at the drive-in had been pretty affectionate, so maybe Dean provided a version of that. Or maybe Jim actually was into Dean and Dean felt weirded out about him being a guy. Or him being a client. Or both.

“Hey Dean,” Sam said, cringing as he heard the squeak in his own voice, “Do you offer the uh, boyfriend experience?”

Dean’s brow wrinkled. “Do I what the what?”

“I read that some guys like it when sex workers pretend they’re dating.” He thought back to what he’d witnessed at the drive-in. “You know, kissing, holding hands. Do you do that?”

Dean kept his eyes on the police files. “We aren’t havin’ this conversation, Sammy.”

“Come on! We talk about hunting but we can’t talk about the fact that you’re selling your body so I can have birthday presents?”

His brother twisted to face him and raised a hand. “First of all, I’m not selling my body.”

Sam crossed his arms and hit Dean with the full power of his teenage disbelief.

Dean was clearly uncomfortable, but was muscling through. He let out a loud breath. “I see it more as a rental situation.”

“How many clients have you had?”

“So far? Just the one.”

“Are you attracted to him? Like, emotionally?”

“He’s my prime suspect in multiple murders, Sam. I’m investigating him, not dating him.”

Sam saw Dean’s face redden and noticed that his brother hadn’t said ‘No.’

“But you like him?”

Dean looked out to a patch of grassy parkland where a man was throwing a ball to a dog. “Feelings don’t come into it. If he killed those girls then I gotta take him down.” His brother looked back, his face a happy mask now. “Enough about that, okay? You’re turning the big one-four tomorrow. What do you wanna do? Anything. I’ll even go to one of those art galleries if you want.”

Sam shrugged. It was hard to think about his birthday when there were more pressing matters. “Let’s keep it low key at home,” he suggested. “Some of my friends are getting together this weekend for cake and movies. I’ll stay over at Kevin’s or Ash’s on the Friday.” If they ended the night drunk it would be Ash’s place. His mom wasn’t nearly as strict as Kevin’s.

Dean nodded. “You need cash for that?”

“No, I’m good.” Sam was actually quite proud at the way his poker winnings had almost eliminated his need to bug Dean for money.

“We’ll do a family thing tomorrow. Presents and all.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything, Dean.”

“Shut it. Of course I did. Fourteen’s like, the last time you’ll really be a kid.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” Sam didn’t have the heart to explain to Dean that he hadn’t felt like a kid for a long time. He laughed. “Remember the year I turned eight, and Dad gave me that set of hunting knives he’d lifted from the hardware store?”

Dean chuckled. “Winchester special, right there.”

“Yeah. We never did ‘normal,’ did we?”

“I tried, Sammy. I tried.”

“I know you did. We ju—“ Sam’s voice trailed off as he spotted Dean’s date from the drive-in—Jim, he supposed—coming out of a drugstore. Getting a look at him in the light of day Sam could see why Dean had a crush on him. He was tall, lean, and sort of pretty in the face. He was wearing a suit, which set him apart from most of the men they knew. Sam wondered if this was part of what Dean found attractive. He looked around for the man’s Lincoln and turned back in time to see him open the trunk of a small green Jetta.

Shit. Switching cars was very suspicious. How could he bring the suspect to Dean’s attention without revealing that he knew what Jim looked like? It was one thing to tell Dean he’d read his notebook and knew about the sex work, but he didn’t want him knowing he’d tailed him while he was on a job. That kind of thing might get him handcuffed to a pipe in the farmhouse ‘for his own safety.’

“That’s an interesting color green on that Jetta,” Sam observed. “What’dya call that? Lime? Apple, maybe?”

“Huh?” Dean looked up from the reports and his eyes widened as he watched Jim climb into the Jetta. “Is that…? Shit!” Dean pushed the files onto Sam’s lap, started the engine and rolled forward, keeping his distance as the Jetta moved toward the exit.

“You got anywhere you need to be?” Dean asked, his eyes on the car four vehicles ahead of them as they headed north on Prospect Avenue.

“Nope.” Sam grinned, arranging the files back into order. “So if you want to follow this car all over town I’m fine with that.”

Dean puffed a laugh. “That obvious, am I?”

“I’ve been able to tell we were tailing someone since I was four.”

“Okay big man.” Dean handed him his notebook and pencil. “Then jot down that license plate real quick.” They followed the green car as it headed north, approaching the river. “And for the record, that color is called pistachio green.”

“So, is this your suspect,” Sam asked, testing the waters to see how much his brother would share. “Jim?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes stayed glued to their suspect’s vehicle. “’Cept he usually drives a big Lincoln.” The Jetta drove a few blocks and pulled into the lot of a CVS. Jim parked and went inside and Dean pulled into the end of the lot.

“It’s another drugstore,” Sam said, thinking out loud.

“Huh?” Dean dug into his pocket, pulling out a set of lock picks.

“He just left a drugstore,” Sam explained, “and now he’s here, at another one.”

“All the explanations I can come up with right now sound like dirty jokes.” Dean opened the car door. “I’m gonna check out the Jetta. Honk if you see anyone coming.”

He crossed casually to the little green car, going directly to the trunk. It opened in seconds and he shuffled through the bags inside. Sam glanced up and down the parking lot, but saw nobody suspicious. Still, when his brother picked the lock on the driver’s side and climbed into the Jetta he felt a surge of panic and almost honked the horn. Killer or not, Jim would not be pleased to catch Dean breaking into his car.

A woman with a stroller passed but didn’t give Dean a second glance. Sam’s attention bounced between the door of the store and the parking lot.

It must have been less than five minutes, but Sam’s heart was pounding his ribs when Dean finally returned and climbed behind the wheel of the Impala.

“You want the bad news or the worse news first.” Dean’s voice was flat, emotionless.

“Just tell me what you found.”

“Well, he’s got a forty caliber piece hidden under the steering column.” Dean chewed on a lip.

“Okay. That’s weird.”

“Yep.” Dean gave a curt nod and Sam could see his brother’s face harden. “And he’s got a trunk full of coconut oil.”

Sam’s eyes widened. This was the best evidence they’d found so far. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. He’s got like, two dozen different kinds. Based on the plastic bags he’s been buying them all over town.

They watched as Jim emerged from the store, put a bag—probably more coconut oil—into the trunk, and then pulled into the tail end of rush hour traffic.

Dean hung back a handful of cars and then followed. After a while the Jetta turned a corner into a residential neighborhood. Dean crept after him, losing sight of their quarry several times in the twisty streets.

“Where’d he go?” Sam’s head swiveled, looking for the green Jetta. “Do you see him?” They cruised the neighborhood, looking for the car or Jim, but finding neither.

“Fuck! We lost him.” Dean made a fist and just held back from punching the steering wheel. “What’s he doing way out here?” He took his notebook back from Sam and jotted down the GPS coordinates where they’d lost him.

Sam looked at the quiet houses, most likely empty during the day. The large building lots at the edge of the city would provide privacy, and there was even some tree cover near the river. He hated having to say it, but he had to.

“Might be a good place to dump a body.”

Beside him, Dean nodded warily. “Yeah. It might at that.”

* * *

 

“Getting any sleep, Krushnic?” Sergeant Turner looked concerned.

“I can sleep once I’ve closed this case,” Castiel muttered. He had delivered all his samples to the lab and was waiting on a response while he reviewed his interview notes. He needed to take steps to widen his investigation, but he felt so close to a breakthrough with Winchester.

“So what you got? Texas Chainsaw? Whole family of killers?”

Castiel ran a hand through his hair, leaving it spiked and messy. “I don’t know. John Winchester was a suspect in three disappearances, all men. Our victims are all women.”

Turner looked thoughtful. “There could be Johns who’ve been attacked and ain’t come forward.“ He scratched his jaw. “Or the bodies ain’t turned up yet. Lot more meat on a man, I figure.”

“You always brighten my day,” Castiel deadpanned.

He smirked. “You driving the pimpmobile tonight?”

“Yes I am,” Castiel said, not bothering to challenge the nickname they’d given his car. “Winchester seems friendly with a woman called Meg. I’m going to question her.”

“Well stay sharp,” Turner advised. “She could be an accomplice. Serial killers are like catnip to women. I met a lady once, nice looking, worked at a library, and she’d hooked up with this fellow….” Castiel smiled through a long story about how nice girls fell for handsome killers and got themselves into trouble. He thought of Dean’s beautiful green eyes and hoped he didn’t fit the pattern himself.

* * *

 

The weekend after Sam’s birthday Dean met up with as many regulars on the strip as he could, sniffing them for the smell of coconut. He told himself he was being thorough, but he suspected he was only putting off the inevitable. So what if someone else smelled like coconut? Jim had a trunk full of the stuff, so Dean should’ve been following that lead.

Instead he was wandering Independence Ave., desperate to find someone who reeked of coconut. This delaying tactic was more difficult than he’d expected. First off, moving close enough to get a good sniff was easier said than done. Second, it was difficult to tell similar smells apart, and he’d had to buy a little tub of coconut lip balm for reference. Sniff the balm, sniff the person, sniff the balm again. Soon he smelled it on everything, discovered he’d got some on his nose, and called it a day. He had a handful of negatives—Frank, Gabe, Ruby (disappointingly), and Garth. He wasn’t sure what Meg was wearing, but it was close and she was surprisingly tight-lipped about it when he’d asked her.

Sam returned from his birthday weekend and helped himself to crackers and ginger ale. Dean, who hadn’t had a drop of booze all weekend, easily side-stepped his brother’s attempt to talk about his feelings. Sam had obviously prepared some speech—“You deserve to be happy, yadda yadda. Don’t let Dad’s small minded something spoil your blah blah.” But Dean was in no mood for a lecture on happiness from a hungover fourteen year old. He tucked Sam into bed early and headed for the strip to continue his scratch and sniff.

But first he needed to do some fact-checking on Jim. He’d looked up the address of the man’s apartment and found the number for the landlord. Now, in the empty elementary school parking lot, He punched the digits into his phone and tried to keep his breathing even. He’d seen his father do this dozens of times.

“Hey there,” Dean said when someone finally picked up. “I’m following up on a rental application on one of our condos.”

“What’s the tenant’s name?” A phlegmy voice asked. He sounded like he’d just woken up.

“First name’s Jimmy. Can’t make out the last name.” he rustled some papers. “One of our temps must’a spilled coffee on it. Says here he lives in apartment 23 of your Benton property.”

“Benton, huh? Lemme see.” He heard the tapping of computer keys and then the voice was back. “Novak. James Novak.” The guy grunted. “Hope he’s not moving anytime soon. He only rented it a week ago.”

“Thanks. You have a good day.”

Dean frowned at his phone. He hated to think Jim was his guy, but there was definitely something hinky about his apartment. And there was the gun, and all that damn coconut oil. He ran the evidence over in his mind as he walked down Wabash. As he rounded the corner of the community center, mind on Jim, he collided with Meg. Dean grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

“Sorry. Wasn’t lookin’ where I was goin.’ You okay?”

She wiggled an eyebrow. “Better than okay. I’m spending the evening with Hot Foot Guy. Massage, pedicure, the works.”

“Oh shit. Listen, can you not? As a personal favor? Just for tonight?”

Meg looked up at him. “Don’t go getting jealous. He’s just a trick.”

“I’m not jealous.”

She ran a nail down the lapel of his leather jacket. “He was asking about you.”

“Was he now?” Dean’s mind reeled. Was Jim onto him? Had he given too much away during their little heart-to-hearts?

“Relax. I didn’t tell him much.” She gave him a wicked leer. “Figure I gotta leave you something for pillow talk.”

Dean pulled her aside and looked around for anyone who might overhear. “Listen, he ever smell like coconut?”

Her nose wrinkled. “Coconut?”

“Yeah. As in Almond Joy and Sno Balls and a ton of other crap.”

“Can’t say he has.”

“Well if you smell coconut on anybody—a trick, a friend, whoever—get the hell out of there. Fast.”

Meg gave him a suspicious look, as if he was the one off his rocker. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean nodded. “You sure I can’t talk you outta going’ with Jim tonight?”

“Sorry Romeo. My dogs are barking.”

“All right. Just uh, text me before and after. And stay sharp, okay?”

Meg looked suddenly serious. “I always am.”

* * *

 

Crowley welcomed the Trickster into his office, and Gabriel could tell his smile was strained. As usual when he felt stressed, the demon lashed out at others.

“Looking a little rough around the edges, Gabriel. Not eating your Wheaties?”

“Bite me, Crowley. I’m prettier than you and you know it.” Gabriel threw himself into one of Crowley’s chairs and put his feet up on the edge of his swanky desk. “You didn’t think to tell me that the hunter sniffing around was Dean Winchester, as in son of John Winchester?”

Crowley glanced at the feet on his desk but didn’t complain. “I don’t go blabbing every bit of gossip I come across. I’m not Bela bloody Talbot.” He schooled his features. “How did you come by this distressing news?”

“Fortune cookie told me.” Gabriel had actually started reading the mind of everyone who came into the diner, scanning for thoughts of murder or cannibalism. It was exhausting and left him feeling dirty by the end of the night. Marv’s head was a cesspool, Garth’s head was like an episode of Pushing Daisies, and Frank, well, he was surprised the guy hadn’t eaten a shotgun years ago. His foray into Robert’s thoughts had been very informative. A quick glance inside told him his real name. A more thorough perusal showed that Dean had been killing monsters back when he still had a bedtime, was doing sex work so he could take care of his little brother, and—the cherry on top—was having one doozy of a sexuality crisis over some guy named Jim.

“So he’s a Winchester. Does the name make a difference?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. He hated it when Crowley played obtuse. “Any schmo with a Zippo and a bag of salt can call himself a hunter. But Winchester’s a whole other level.”

“Really? The father was, but I have reliable intel that he’s no longer among the living.”

“The father was obsessed.” Gabriel waved a hand as if fanning himself. “But the son is major league hero material.” Now that Kate was out of harm’s way he found it easier to tolerate the hunter. Especially since he was after whatever had killed three of Gabe’s regulars.

“Really?” Crowley looked resigned. “Well then. Maybe I’d better kick this downstairs and see what they’d like me to do about it.” He pulled a bowl from a desk drawer. “Unless you’d like to bleed, I’d like some privacy for this next part.”

“You guys still doing that?” Gabe snorted. “Cell phones, Crowley. They’re all the rage among humans.”

“Yes, well the recipient of this particular call doesn’t care for anything invented this millennia.” He pressed a desk button and Christian came inside.

“Chrissy, dear, can you show my guest out and then bring me one of the girls. Preferably one that ate recently.”

Twenty minutes and one conversation with Hell later Crowley punched in the number for their troublesome cannibal friend with his blunt digits. He didn't answer until the fourth ring. 

“What do you want of me?” the voice rasped.

“I’ve decided to offer you an opportunity to make amends for your earlier foolishness,” Crowley said. “Kill the cop and the hunter. No bodies. Just make them disappear.”

”I can oblige.”

“You’d damn well better, or the next body to disappear will be yours.” Crowley ended the call and glared around the grotty little room. He wondered if it wouldn’t be easier just to kill the hunter and the cop himself, perhaps throw in the cannibal while he was at it, but that wasn’t the plan his superiors preferred. They were all about outsourcing lately. Things would run so much more smoothly if he were King of Hell.

* * *

Dean took out his cell, stared at it, and then put it away, only to take it out again moments later. Jim’s sparse apartment had been rented a week ago, but he said he’d been living in town for a month. Maybe he’d stayed with a friend while he looked for a place. People did that all the time. What they didn’t do was carry a hidden gun in a second vehicle and buy a shitload of coconut oil. How many containers of the stuff would you need to deep-fry someone? Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but his brain quickly made calculations based on a pig roast he’d seen once. It wasn’t reassuring. Jim had also said he worked for the city. It was time to follow up on that.

Dean punched in the number for the Kansas City Comptroller’s office and using his gruffest tone, pretended to be from the Works department. He explained that he’d received some misdirected mail and asked where he might find James Novak. As the woman explained that no one named Novak had worked for the city in the past five years Dean’s vision went blurry. He swallowed hard, thanking her for her assistance and ended the call. He paced angrily then swore and kicked the side of the community center while Rosie and Hippy Chong watched, concerned.

The puzzle was coming together and Dean didn’t like the picture it was making. Jim had lied about his apartment and about the boring job he didn’t want to talk about. He had a gun and the same oil that had been found on all three victims. It wasn’t looking good. The guy was probably working for the two-face, checking out potential victims. It would be easy—a few innocuous dates to put the victim at ease, then something slipped into their food or drink. Jim hadn’t _really_ liked him. He just wasn’t worth eating yet.

Rosie approached hesitantly. “Problem, Robbie?”

Dean whipped his head up and sniffed, trying to get himself under control. He didn’t need the whole neighborhood seeing him cry over some guy.

“Nah. Just someone I thought was a friend turned out to be pretty bad.”

Rosie wrapped an arm around him and rubbed his back. “That’s not your fault,” she said.

“Yeah,” Hippy Chong agreed. He patted Dean’s shoulder awkwardly. “Sartre said ‘Man is condemned to be free, because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.’ That’s existentialism, man.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks, guys.” He looked at Rosie’s friendly face, worn by addiction. “Listen, do me a favor, would ya? If Jim, uh, Hot Foot Guy comes around, don’t go with him, okay? I think he…well, aw Jesus, just don’t go with him.”

Rosie looked worried. “Is this about what happened to Rachel and them?”

“I don’t have proof.” Dean felt his heart break a little. He found it hard to believe Jim was dangerous, but he couldn’t risk lives on a damn man-crush. He’d have to tell the other girls, too. He glanced at Hippy Chong and back at Rosie. “Let’s just say the guy’s a real two-face.”

“I had a dream like that,” Rosie said, excited. “The killer had two faces. One in front, and one in back.”

Behind her, Hippy Chong moved a finger in a circle by his ear in the ‘she’s crazy’ sign. Dean wasn’t so sure.


	10. Chapter 10

Back at his diner, Gabriel glanced down at the bottle of ant poison the exterminator had left and back up at the demon in front of him. It was Alastair, one of Crowley’s goons. Gabe didn’t normally poison his customers, but as he delved into the demon’s mind, he was tempted. What a cesspool. Sadly, poison would only kill whoever Alastair was possessing. Gabe knocked grinds from the portafilter with a satisfying thud. He couldn’t poison the bastard, but he could bless the espresso.

Alastair leaned across the counter, his voice a low rumble. “Crowley’s taking care of that problem you discussed.”

“Oh is he?” Gabe locked the portafilter into the head and hit the button for a double long.

“Yeah,” Alastair drawled. “Our hungry friend is gonna take out the cop and the hunter. Consider it payback for drawing the heat down on us all.”

“The cop too?” Crowley hadn’t mentioned killing a cop before. Gabe sifted through the images in the demon’s mind. Alastair knew a lot of cops. He wondered which one had drawn the demon’s ire.

“Yeah.” Alastair leered. “Shame. Pretty face like that, wish I could’a had a few hours alone with him.”

“You think the cop’s hot?” Gabe foamed the milk, and adjusted his search. There weren’t many. Alastair was picky when it came to which humans he found attractive.

“Don’t you?” Alastair’s eyes rolled up into his head. “Those lips! Oh the things I’d like to do to them.”

Bingo. There, in what he assumed was Alastair’s ‘spank bank,’ he found the cop, looking like a lost puppy. It was the customer the girls called Hot Foot Guy.

Gabe took a calming breath. Typical Crowley. Plunging ahead without considering how his plans might impact others. Killing a cop just brought more cops. Of course Crowley had his ‘man in blue,’ so maybe police attention wouldn’t be a problem for him. But if the fuzz started poking their noses around the diner they’d scare off half his customer base. He murmured a few words in Enochian over the espresso.

Gabe poured the blessed espresso and foamy milk into a takeout cup, his mind working as he tried to keep the smile on his face.

“Keep it in your pants, black eyes. When’s all this going down?”

Alastair took the cup and passed over his money. “As we speak.”

Gabe rang up the sale and dropped the change into his tip mug. “Thanks for the heads-up, Hell spawn. Don’t let the door exorcise you on the way out.”

He waved his new guy over from where he was weighing out coffee into paper filters. What was his name? Salamander?

“Hey kid! Take the register a sec.”

The new guy looked like he’d been asked to remove a ruptured spleen with a grapefruit spoon.

“It’s easy. You’ll be fine.”

Outside, a scream was followed by a string of curses. Alastair had quite the potty mouth.

Gabe’s thoughts shifted back to the problem at hand. He didn’t know where the cop lived, but maybe Frank would know. He seemed the type to keep a dossier on everyone. Gabe wondered about his own file but figured it was better not to know. He’d hate to have to kill Frank. The man was a good customer.

Just then Dean Winchester entered and Gabe let out a relieved huff. Timing like this almost made him believe his father still gave a damn. Winchester was sniffing his leather jacket and frowning.

“Hey Gabe,” the hunter held out the garment, “this smell like coconut to you?”

Gabe waved a hand. “You people all smell like macaroni and cheese.” He led him away from the counter. “Listen Robert-o, are you free?”

Winchester smirked. “More like available. You interested?”

Gabe’s lips curled, but his eyes were all serious. “Join me in my office, won’t you?”

Winchester followed him into a storage room where tubes of takeout cups leaned toward them like palm trees.

“What can I do ya for?” Winchester asked.

“Cut the Lady Marmalade act, hunter. You’re here about whatever killed Casey, Rachel and Cecily.”

“You know something I oughta know?” Winchester’s smile disappeared, replaced by the grim face of a soldier. His stance shifted, ready to fight. Gabe almost wanted to laugh.

“I know the purple people eater you’re looking for is going after your hot foot friend. Jimmy, is it?”

Winchester looked frightened, which was all kinds of intriguing.

“Seriously?”

“My source says he’s on his way now.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Shit! I gotta go.” He bolted for the door.

“You’re welcome!” Gabe called after him. He moved to the window and watched the hunter run up Wabash. He’d love to be a fly on the wall for that showdown, but this business wasn’t going to run itself.

“Hope you enjoyed your brief taste of power, Salamander,” he said, stepping behind the counter. “Now get your skinny ass back on beans.”

* * *

 

Castiel cradled Meg’s left foot in his palm and applied a coat of burgundy lacquer to her smallest toenail.

“What can you tell me about Robert?” he asked.

She ran a tongue across her lips. “Should I tell you anything?”

He moved on to the next toe. “I’d like it if you did.”

“He’s a sucker for a good slice of pie and thinks Metallica is romantic.”

“Metallica?” Castiel’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “What type of music does he do?”

“They. And it’s kind of like a depressed Cookie Monster.”

“Any songs I might recognize?”

“Nothing Else Matters, Enter Sand—”

There was a loud knock at the door.

Meg arched a dark brow. “If this is turning into a party, Sugar, we need to renegotiate terms.”

Castiel capped the polish and handed it to her. “I’m not expecting anyone. Please wait here.”

“Kinda have to!” Meg wiggled her wet toes.

Castiel hurried down the hall, cursing the KCPD for renting an apartment without a peephole. He cracked the door and saw Hippy Chong, his long hair making him look like an anxious shrub.

He opened the door wider. “Chong. What brings you here?”

The old hippy bounced lightly in place. “Can we rap, man?”

Castiel stepped aside, wondering how Chong had found his apartment. He assumed the women on the strip would share client locations among one another, but he didn’t think they’d tell their dealer.

Meg called out from the couch. “Everything okay?”

“Not sure,” Castiel called back. As he turned back to Chong his peripheral vision caught Meg slipping her feet into her shoes, now mindless of the wet polish.

Chong closed the door behind him and clicked the deadbolt into place. The hair on Castiel’s neck stiffened and he ran over the combat moves Donna Hanscum had taught him. He could almost hear her friendly voice saying, ‘Use their momentum against them, okay?’

“Dig,“ Chong said leaning against the door, “this is gonna sound gonzo, but I gotta turn you onto something heavy.”

Chong turned to face the door and started to lift his hair. Castiel caught a whiff of coconut oil, and suddenly he felt as if he might soil himself. A face emerged from the back of Chong’s head, eyes yellow and ancient. Long spikes pressed out of his elbows and Castiel barely dodged as they jabbed toward him, just grazing his torso.

As the backwards thing came in for a second attack Castiel grabbed him just above the elbow and using Chong’s arm for leverage, flipping him over his hip. Chong landed like a crab, scrambled to a stand, and came at him again. Whatever he was, it was fast, and alarmingly athletic.

Cringing away from the second face, Castiel grabbed Chong by the hair and slammed him into the wall. The rebound threw them against the hall closet, causing the door to leap its track with a clatter. Despite his small size, Chong outmatched him in strength and Castiel took several dizzying blows to the head and torso.

Castiel’s mind whirled as one of Chong’s elbow spikes barely missed his eye. His gun was in the car, and the nearest decent weapon was in the kitchen. He spotted an umbrella inside the bare closet, which was better than nothing. He grabbed it and wheeled, kicking hard, then striking with the umbrella. Chong hissed and grabbed the makeshift weapon, crushing the metal ribs and shattering the plastic.

The jaundiced eyes stared into his own and Castiel crumpled to the floor. He tried to move but his muscles couldn’t respond.

 _Нам пиздец_ [we’re fucked], he thought.

“You later,” The head hissed. “First you'll watch me kill the woman.”

Castiel lay like a rag doll as his attacker hobbled toward Meg, who, he was pleased to see, had pulled an impressively intimidating knife.

Castiel tried to shout a warning for her not to look the monster in the eye, but his mouth was numb. He hoped she could fight with her eyes closed, because whatever this thing was, it intended to murder and eat them. Perhaps not in that order.

* * *

 

Dean’s hands trembled as the Impala sped through back alleys toward Jim’s apartment. He’d seen grown men—big strapping guys—cry for their mommas when faced with a vamp. He’d also seen little kids keep their cool and strategically take down a shtriga. Meg was tough, but he had no idea how she might react when face to face…to face…with a monster.

He still hoped that Jim might be innocent, but his brain kept reminding him of the coconut oil, and the lie about working for the city. Maybe Jim and the two-face were working together. Maybe he lured women to his apartment for his two-faced master.

He grabbed his machete and left his baby at the curb, shouldering his way through a locked door and into the stairwell. He barely felt the burn in his thighs as he dashed up four flights.

He could hear Meg shouting as he came into the hall and was relieved to hear her voice. If she was still being mouthy then maybe he wasn’t too late. He adjusted his grip on his machete, took a deep breath, and kicked the apartment door open.

Jim lay on the floor, unmoving, and Dean felt his heart drop. But there was no time to waste worrying. Meg struggled with Hippy Chong, whose human face was watching Dean with surprise even as the monster on his other side loomed closer to Meg and her swiping knife. Chong smacked her arm, hard, and the knife clattered across the floor and into the kitchen. It was now or never.

Dean barreled in and swung his machete, separating Chong’s head from his shoulders. Meg sucked in panicked breaths as Dean returned to the hall, and shut the door.

Jim struggled to stand, leaning heavily on the wall. He gestured to the body, afraid to get too close. “He…it…”

“Tried to fucking kill us both!” Meg spit out.

“Well you’re safe now,” Dean assured her. “It’s dead.”

“Is it? How do we know?” Castiel approached cautiously, his muscles recovering. “It might have other biological differences. A second brain, maybe?”

Dean was impressed. It had taken an encore stabbing of a dude named Styne before back-up organs had occurred to him. With some training, Jim might make a decent hunter. Meg too, for that matter. She had guts.

“I think we’re good. He’s not gonna be hurting anyone anymore.”

Meg’s eyes brimmed with tears of outrage. “This thing killed Cecily!” She kicked it. “And Rachel!” Kick. “And Casey!” Kick.

Dean turned to Jim, his face awash in relief. If he’d been attacked, paralyzed, then he was innocent, just like Meg.

“Boy am I glad to see you. I thought…” he set his machete on the floor and wiped a hand down his face. “Well forget what I thought.” He held out a hand. “Name’s Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you.”

Jim shook the outstretched hand firmly. “Castiel Krushnic.”

It was Dean’s turn to tilt his head in confusion. “Casta-What now?”

Despite how exhausted he looked, Castiel laughed. “Call me Cas.”

“I can do that, Cas.” Dean grinned, happiness warm in his chest. Hearing Meg sob, he turned to see her collapse to her knees, face buried in her hands.

“Shit!” Dean hurried to her side and pulled her to the couch. “Might be shock.”

“Wrap her in that blanket,” Cas said. He hurried to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water and a handful of chocolate bars.

“Here, eat this.” He passed a bar to Meg. “It’ll lower your blood pressure and increase your serotonin. Plus it’s delicious.” He offered a bar to Dean who declined, then opened one and ate it himself.

Despite the mascara staining her cheeks Meg laughed as she ate. “Dinner and a show? You’re a real good time.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, eyes shining at him. “He’s a charmer.”

Cas crouched to examine the head. “What is he?”

Dean rubbed Meg’s arms through the blanket. “It’s called a two-face. They’re native to this region, more or less. I never fought one before so I wasn’t sure how to kill it. Still, decap’s a classic.”

He released Meg and used his machete to tap one of the body’s spines. “Freaky elbows is a new one on me. I expected horns.”

“Because of the conical injuries,” Cas said thoughtfully.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded, looking at him with tight curiosity. He still knew too much about the case, and that needed some explaining.

Cas sniffed the head then leaned back, sitting on his heels. “Coconut.”

Dean felt a lock of Hippie Chong’s hair and then sniffed at his fingers. “I think it’s a hair product transferring to the victims when he feeds.”

Cas looked up at Dean with something like awe. “This is what you do, isn’t it? You kill monsters.”

Dean nodded, his heart beating fast. “Yeah. Kind of a family business.”

Cas nodded. “Of course. Your father John did it too, didn’t he?”

Dean’s grin disappeared. “How’d you know his name?”

* * *

 

“Sorry guys,” Sam said as he spread his cards on the table in the science lab. “Full house.”

“Fuck a duck!” Harry Spengler’s voice carried across the empty classroom. They’d skipped the period before lunch to play poker. Harry was convinced it was Ed’s absence that made his luck turn cold. Next time he was dragging him along, Geography test or not. He pushed his pair of deuces away in disgust. “I’m busted. And today’s sloppy Joe day, too.” He sighed, as if the weight of the world sat upon his shoulders. “I’m going to have to eat the sandwich my sister made.”

Ash grinned and flicked his hair back. “You gotta know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.” Ash, who’d won more than Sam this time around, patted the bills in the pocket of his plaid shirt. “Sloppy Joes, here we come!”

Sam pulled some bills from his winnings and passed them to Harry. “For the drive-in. Now we’re even.”

“You’re gonna wish you hadn’t missed the haunted school, Man.”

“You got a haunted school?” Ash asked.

“Hell yeah.” Harry launched into a legend about the ghost of a hot teacher, desperate for sex. Sam bit his tongue and ignored Harry’s completely mistaken understanding of ghosts.

Sam tuned to Kevin. “You wanna play again?”

“Definitely.” Kevin collected the cards, frowning as he shuffled. “I can calculate the odds in my head. I should be winning more than you.”

Sam looked concerned. “I’m not cheating.”

“That’s why it’s so frustrating.”

Harry leaned against the table. “I’ll watch. Nice to see someone else lose for a change.”

“Actually, gentlemen, I think you’re supposed to be in class now.”

Four heads turned to see the principal, Mr. Shurley, standing in the doorway.

Ash looked around as if confused. “This is not my Advanced Physics class.” He moved to the door.

“My office at lunch,” Mr. Shurley reminded him. “Those applications to MIT aren’t going to write themselves.” He moved aside and Ash bolted for freedom.

Harry mumbled an inaudible excuse, pointing toward the hall, and hurried away with short, quick steps.

“Are you going to call my mom?” Kevin looked terrified.

“Not if you go directly to AP English and actually participate.”

Kevin sighed. “We’re reading Romeo and Juliet.”

“And someday you’ll be glad you did.”

Kevin looked doubtful but nodded to Sam and left the lab.

Mr. Shurley sat on a stool. “You usually play illegal card games during study breaks, Sam?”

“What gave us away?” Sam asked.

“Five teenage guys hanging out in the science lab?” Mr. Shurley chucked. “It was pretty obvious.”

“It’s not a regular thing,” Sam said. “This is the first time we played at school.”

“Well, make sure it’s the last, okay?” Shurley patted Sam’s shoulder. “Gambling’s no joke. If you’re interested in earning some extra cash I could use help with a paper I’m writing for the _American Journal of Education_.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Next time you have a study period come by my office. It’s nothing exciting, mostly updating a literature review.” He looked thoughtful. “Do you own a laptop, Sam?”

Sam’s face fell. “No. I’ve looked on Craigslist but even used, they’re expensive.”

“I’ve got an old one Ash is gonna update, and I’d be willing to include it as part of your compensation for working on the article.”

Sam tried not to let his surprise and joy show but his poker face failed him. “That’d be great.”

“No more gambling, okay?”

“You got it.” Sam looped his backpack over a shoulder and stood. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He checked his watch. “There’s fifteen minutes left in your study period. How about if you actually study?”

* * *

 

Dean’s face was a mask of restrained power as he glared at Cas. “How’d you know my father’s name?”

Cas pulled him aside. Given that Dean Winchester had just saved his life he felt like he needed to come clean with him. “I’ve been investigating the murders.”

Dean’s smile slowly returned. “Oh! I get it.” He glanced back at Meg, who was wiping her fingerprints off tiny bottles of nail polish, and lowered his voice. “So you’re like, Officer Cas?”

“Krushnic, actually. It’s Russian.”

Dean began nodding, and chuckling to himself. “That’s why this place wasn’t lived in and why the city didn’t have a Jimmy Novak working for them.”

Cas felt surprised. “You looked into me?”

Dean grinned. “Oh yeah! You were my prime suspect. You knew way too much. I had to follow up on you. Even if you were a great kisser.”

“I hate to interrupt, boys,” Meg called out, “but what the fuck are we going to do with the dead guy?”

“Usually I lug them to a deserted area and burn them.” Dean prodded the body with the toe of his boot, checking for rigor. “We got time.”

Cas shook his head. “No. The cops need a body.” He paced, thinking furiously. He needed to close the case in a way that wouldn’t cause the department to look into Dean anymore than he already had. But picturing how his report might read without any mention of the supernatural was a challenge. At a bare minimum, leaving out the hypno-powers, people would wonder why the assailant had two faces.

“Leave the machete,” he said finally. “I’ll say we disarmed him and defended ourselves when he attacked. We can let the medical examiner explain the physical anomalies.”

Dean frowned. “But this is my good one.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “I will buy you a new machete, Dean. Please, just go.” He pushed him toward the door.

Meg skirted around the blood on the floor. “He’s right. We gotta scram before the cops show.”

Cas turned to her, surprised. “You have to stay. You’re a witness.”

She pushed Cas against the wall. It wasn’t aggressive, but it was definitely forceful. “Sorry sugar, but I don’t do scenes with the pigs.” She kissed him full on the mouth and pulled back, smirking lasciviously. “I think you can handle things just fine without me.” She glanced at Dean, a twinkle in her eye. “See you later, hero.”

“Hey now!” Dean crossed his arms, trying not to let his amusement show. “I’m the hero and he gets the kisses? How is that fair?”

Meg winked at Cas “You’ll have to make it up to him.” She hurried out of the apartment.

Cas touched his mouth, his lips feeling slightly tingly. He wondered if he’d have an opportunity to make it up to Dean. Now that Dean’s chase had ended, would he move on? Was this goodbye?

As if reading his mind Dean spoke. “You got my number. Text me or call. Keep me updated, okay?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Dean left and Cas called the station. Before the crime scene investigators arrived he looked around the apartment, finding Meg’s knife on the floor. He recognized the bone handle and inscribed blade from Crowley’s description. It was the stolen knife the pimp had been looking for.

All of his academy training told him to leave the crime scene exactly as it was. But the body’s second head, and his recent experience of paralysis, told him that the rules were out the window on this one. He picked up the knife. He wasn’t letting this get back to Crowley before he found out a hell of a lot more about it. He went to his bedroom, pulled a bubble-wrapped envelope from the recycling bin, and slipped the knife inside. He sealed the envelope with duct tape, then addressed it to his real home, slipping it into the mailbox in the lobby as he went down to meet the squad cars.


	11. Chapter 11

Crowley heard his cell phone vibrate and pulled the device from his pocket, glaring at the tiny screen. It was his man in blue. He looked across his desk to the excited lump of a man sweating through his polyester suit. Crowley raised a finger to indicate he’d just be a moment then stepped into the hall.

“This better be important Campbell,” Crowley growled. “I’m about to collect a man’s soul in exchange for five years of mundane sex.”

“It’s important,” Campbell assured him. “Krushnic just reported in to Turner. Sounds like he was attacked by one of yours.”

Crowley let out a long suffering sigh. Sometimes he wondered if his job on Earth was just an illusion and he was actually still in Hell. The amount of frustration certainly made it a possibility. “I don’t suppose he was calling from his deathbed?”

“Nah. He’s fine. But the whore he was with did a runner. Our guys are bringing her in now.”

Crowley pulled the phone from his ear long enough to swear loudly and strike the wall with a fist. The sounds drew Alastair like a dog waiting to be thrown a bone.

“Well,” Crowley said, smiling at his minion, “if at first you don’t succeed—”

“Your guy’s not going to get the chance,” Campbell said. “Krushnic decapitated him. He’s headed to the morgue in two pieces.”

“Really?” Crowley raised his brows. “I didn’t think the little Cossack had it in him.” He turned to Alastair. “The pretty Russian’s killed our cannibal.”

Campbell’s voice came through the speaker. “I’m not so sure he did it alone.”

Crowley leaned against the wall, his mind thinking furiously. “Let’s take these lemons and make lemonade, shall we? Can you see to it that only the big piece of our former associate gets to the morgue?”

“I’m on it,” Campbell said. “There’s also quite a file on Winchester. We could bring him in, if you like.”

“Yes, do. He’ll be easier to kill in a jail cell. And I have just the fellow for the task.” Crowley looked calculatingly at Alastair, who smiled broadly and cracked his knuckles.

“I’ll bring Winchester in,” Campbell assured him. “Get your guy arrested and I’ll make sure they’re in a cell together.”

Crowley almost laughed. “Winchester’s a hunter, you nitwit. You’ll need half a dozen men to bring him in.”

Campbell snorted. “File says the kid’s seventeen.”

“And he’s dropped more bodies than you’ve had birthdays. Take a team.”

Crowley ended the call while Campbell was still grumbling and turned to Alastair. “Fancy committing an assault?”

* * *

 

Castiel collapsed into his desk chair, dreading the paperwork he still had to do. As he came into the bullpen from the records room he passed Sergeant Campbell and a group of SWAT officers in bulky gear.

“Where’s Campbell going in such a hurry?”

Sergeant Turner jerked a thumb toward the parking lot. “He’s taking SWAT to check out the place Winchester’s been crashing. City repossessed it for back taxes years ago, and the Captain can’t risk having satanic rituals on city property.” Turner smiled. “Separation of church and state.”

 _Ёбаный насос!_ [a fucked pump!] Castiel wanted to bang his head into his desk. “Winchester isn’t our guy.”

“Maybe not for this.” Turner snorted. “But squatting on city property with a shitload of weaponry? Gotta be up to something.”

Castiel felt a surge of panic. Dean had saved his life. Allowing him and his brother to be caught up in a multiple homicide would be a poor way of repaying him. He made a face as he downed his tepid coffee.

“I need to eat,” he lied. “You want anything from Benny’s?” The greasy spoon on the corner was a dive to look at, but the big Cajun who ran it could really cook.

Turner’s face lit up. “Hell yeah. Get me one of them little burgers.” Turner pulled some crumpled bills from his wallet and handed them over. “Actually, get me two.”

Castiel nodded. “Will do.” He slid into his Lincoln and called his order in to Benny’s, yelling so his cheap hands-free system could hear him, as he drove to the nearest still-working pay phone. He jumped from the car and fumbled coins into the slot. The phone rang twice before he heard Dean’s voice, hard and suspicious.

“Who’s this?”

Castiel almost cried with relief. “SWAT’s coming to the farmhouse, Dean.” He looked at his watch. “ETA fifteen minutes.”

“Cas?” He heard some shuffling and then Dean yelling to his brother, “Sammy! Poughkeepsie!”

“You still there?” Cas asked.

“Yeah. I’m here.” He sounded as exhausted as Cas felt.

“Write down this address.” He rattled off the location of his own bungalow. “There’s a key in the ceramic bee in the side yard. Park the Impala in the garage and close the doors. Help yourselves to food. I’ll get there when I can.”

“Thanks for the warning, man. I won’t forget it. Or you.” Dean ended the call and Castiel wondered if Dean and his brother would be there when he got home. That had sounded like a goodbye.

He picked up the food from Benny’s and returned to the station where he completed his paperwork faster than he had in his life. Just after 4:00pm the Captain called him in for a round of self-congratulatory statements and comments on Castiel’s bright future of proving himself through hard work.

“You in tomorrow?” Turner asked.

Cas shook his head. “No. I’ve got two days off then one e-day,” he said, referring to the extra days officers were sometimes awarded for a job well done. “Captain Zachariah’s says you’ll look into Chong.”

Turner nodded. “We’ll find his address and get the lab boys going through it with a fine tooth comb. Don’t you worry, by the time you’re back we’ll have a pile of reports for you to read.”

Cas handed Turner his own reports. “I don’t like being away from my case this long.”

“Relax, Krushnic,” Turner grinned and slapped him on the back with the folders. “Enjoying a long weekend once in a while is a man’s God-given right.”

“I guess.”

“I know.” As Cas headed for the door Sergeant Turner called after him. “And get some sleep! You look like a zombie!”

* * *

 

In the overly-bright grocery store, Castiel looked up from a pile of avocados to see one of the men from Crowley’s brothel lurking by the lettuce. He hadn’t been a cop long, but he could spot a hard tail when he saw one. This guy wasn’t making any effort to hide, so he was trying to intimidate him or to initiate a confrontation, and Castiel had no time for either. As he paid for his groceries he felt the weight of his gun in the holster under his blazer. With his undercover work over he could carry his weapon again, and since encountering the supernatural he preferred being armed.

As he walked to his car he heard Crowley’s associate shout across the parking lot.

“Hey, Ruskie! I want a piece of you!”

Under normal circumstances he’d have loved to teach the man a lesson, but he had to get home. Dean might be waiting. At least, he hoped he would be. He ignored the taunts and got into his car.

As he pulled the big Lincoln into the flow of traffic Castiel remembered where else he’d seen this guy before—making out with Dean against the community center. Almost before he’d made the plan his foot eased off the gas to allow the black Cadillac to catch up. The part of him that was a cop knew this was a bad idea, but the part of him that was just a man felt inclined toward aggression.

He talked himself down; assaulting a civilian was not the quickest way to get home to his guests. Sheriff Hanscum would have been proud of him. The Cadillac approached a second time and he could hear the driver yelling.

With some smooth lane changes Castiel put distance between himself and the other vehicle. The Cadillac approached again, driving recklessly. As it swerved to pass a flower delivery van it clipped a heavy truck coming in the opposite direction. Castiel winced at the sound of smashing glass and metal behind him. Torn between concern and a righteous sense of vengeance, he turned right and circled around. Crowley’s man was out of the Cadillac and arguing with the truck driver and two police officers. As he passed, Castiel saw the officers handcuffing Crowley’s man. Castiel headed for home with a smile on his face.

* * *

 

Dean threw their bags into the back of the impala and then he and Sammy were gone with a spray of gravel. It was a shame to lose the farmhouse, but with a SWAT team on the way going to ground was a no-brainer. Dean felt a warm rush as he thought about Cas’ warning call. He’d kept Dean out of jail and Sam out of a foster home. Dean owed that guy.

The smart thing would be to hightail it for Bobby’s. He glanced across at Sam, hunched down, his arms tight across his chest. He’d looked like this every time John told them they had to move again. Shit. Dean felt like their father, yanking Sam outta school no matter what it did to him.

He pulled the Impala to a halt at a stop sign. If they were going to Bobby’s he’d need to turn left and hit the highway. They could be there in five and a half hours; six if they stopped for dinner. Dean stretched an arm across the steering wheel and turned to face his brother, whose face was carefully blank.

“You got what, three or four weeks of school left?”

“Two.” Sam looked out the window. “It’s fine. Let’s just go to Bobby’s.”

Dean let out a slow breath. Maybe things weren’t as dire as he thought. Cas had warned them about the cops. He’d even given Dean his real address, which he didn’t have to do. Dean made his decision. He wasn’t gonna be John Winchester’s good little soldier anymore. That wasn’t the kind of dad that Sam needed.

He pulled his notebook out, and passed it over. “Read the address on that last page to me, would ya?” He eased off the break, gave the Impala gas, and turned right.

As they got closer to the address the brothers exchanged a knowing look as they recognized the neighborhood to which they’d previously tailed the green Jetta. Moments later they arrived at a craftsman bungalow and Dean double-checked the address. This place was nice. He pulled into the drive and got out, looking for the ceramic bee. There were a dozen ceramic bees in the garden but only one contained a house key with a fob for the garage. Dean pulled the Impala inside and closed the folding door, then led the way into the house. Sam brought up the rear, lugging his duffle bag.

The place had an orderliness that Dean associated with the military. He searched the house to get the layout and confirm they were alone. A small library with a desktop computer distracted Sam, nerd that he was. Dean ran an eye over the bookshelves, seeing titles on psychology, home repair, bees, and crime. One section looked to be in Russian. Sam pulled down a text on criminal law, and smiled at its table of contents.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Dean warned. Just because Cas allowed them to crash there tonight didn’t mean they’d be welcome to stay.

Sam nodded distractedly as he sank into a chair by the window.

Forty minutes later Dean heard the growl of a familiar engine and looked out a window to see Cas’ Lincoln. Dean went out to meet him.

“You made it!” Cas hefted groceries from the trunk.

Dean collected the remaining bags, shut the trunk with an elbow, and followed him inside.

“You always buy this much food, Cas?” he asked, watching him put the groceries away.

“I may have bought more than planned while scoping out the guy tailing me in the market.”

“Who was tailing you?”

“Big guy. Works for a pimp named Crowley. I think he planned to assault me.”

“I’ll take care of Crowley,” Dean assured him.

“Don’t bother.” Cas removed his blazer and unlatched his shoulder holster. “I can handle a pimp.”

* * *

 

Crowley curled up on the couch with a bottle of Glencraig, watching a maudlin romance miniseries centered on an Edwardian household. This day had been crap. The cannibal had bollocksed the job and had to be cleaned up himself. Campbell had kept his name out of the investigation, but like everything else, it had cost money. Alastair was in custody, but Winchester was in the wind, so he was down one of his best men for nothing. Perhaps a night in jail would teach Alastair a lesson. The Russian cop had slipped his clutches, and was undoubtedly being boringly righteous somewhere in the suburbs.

Crowley took a gulp of the familiar liquor he’d favored since grade school. If he wanted something done right, he’d better do it himself. Well, he’d have his minions do it, but it was always fun to stroll in and drop some droll remarks before the _coup de grâce_. He’d need to find Winchester, and Campbell could get him an address on that Russian cop. But he could kill them later. Tonight he needed to get smashed and immerse himself in the immortal tale of a beautiful young woman’s undying passion for a man twice her age. He drank, and turned up the volume.

* * *

 

Dean put a hand on Cas’ forearm, stilling his movements of the spatula in the stir-fry. It was a nice forearm and the way his muscles moved while he cooked was interesting to watch. But he had more important things to do than ogle Cas’ muscles.

“I gotta know,” Dean asked, “are the cops gonna grab Sammy the second he shows at school?” If Sam couldn’t even step on the property without being snatched up then they may as well head for Bobby’s tonight. Not that Dean wanted to, now that he was here, standing next to Cas. And that was a whole other issue he needed to think about. Or not think about.

Cas looked nervous, which was a good look on him. “How much time is left in the semester?”

“Two weeks.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.” He pushed the beef, onion, and mushrooms around and then added sliced peppers. The smell made Dean’s mouth water. But he needed to know more before he could let the issue go. He didn’t mess around with Sam’s safety.

Dean gently cradled Cas’ jaw and held his gaze. Those big blue eyes looked so open. “I need to be _sure_ , Cas. I can’t lose Sam.”

“The police won’t be looking for Sam.” Cas looked guilty now. Why would he look guilty?

Dean released his hold, realizing it was just making him want to kiss the guy. “Why’s that?”

Cas moved to the sink and quickly rinsed some bean sprouts. The nervous darting about the kitchen made Dean want to chase him. He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. Sam’s safety was more important than his battered libido.

“Because they don’t know he exists.”

Dean’s confusion must have been apparent, because Cas continued. “I didn’t mention him in the case files.” He added the sprouts to the pan, making the oil hiss.

“Seriously?” Dean felt his muscles unclench. This might be the best news he’d had in a long time. But if that were true it had to be a decision Cas made a while back, when he barely knew Dean. “Why not?”

“Sorry, what?” Cas added some seasoning. Dean wasn’t sure if he was preoccupied or stalling.

“Why didn’t you mention Sam in the case files?”

Cas flipped the contents of the stirfry and some oil hit the burner, flaring up. “ _Вот_ _дерьмо́._ [Oh shit.]” He pointed to a cabinet. “Would you bring me three of those red plates, please?”

Dean grinned broadly as he brought the plates.

“What?” Cas asked, defensive. He turned off the burner and dished up the food.

“Was that Russian?” Dean had liked hearing the unexpected words tumble over Cas’ lips. It was hot.

“Yes, it was.” Cas set the plates on the table and went to the fridge for drinks.

“I like it.” Dean got glasses from the cupboard and set them by the plates. He winked at their host. “Say something Russian for me.”

Cas’s face was a flush of pink. “ _Ты мне нравишься_ [I like you].“

“Cool. What’s it mean?”

“There’s a black Impala in my garage.”

Dean grinned and went to collect Sam for dinner. He wished he could hear Cas speak like that more often. Maybe even learn enough to know what he meant.

After they ate Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks for the meal, Cas. Is it okay if Sam and I crash here tonight?”

“Of course.” While Sam rinsed the dishes Cas led Dean down the hall. “You’re welcome as long as you like.” He opened the far door, next to the bathroom. “This can be Sam’s room. If there’s anything he needs, let me know.”

Dean nodded. The room was small but cozy, with a dresser, bookshelf, single bed, and a table that functioned as a desk. It was a big step up from a sleeping bag on a farmhouse floor. Sam would love it.

Cas gestured to a second door. “That’s my room.”

Dean’s hand hovered at the doorknob. “Can I?”

“Go ahead.”

Dean opened the door and looked inside. Cas’ bedroom was dark and masculine, with a bedside table overflowing with books. Dean liked it. And the bed was big enough for two.

“Which side’s yours?” He turned to smirk at Cas, who looked like he’d just swallowed sand.

Cas’s eyes widened. “I would never—”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Never what?” He leaned in until he could feel the other man’s body heat and felt a thrill of anticipation. This was it. He was going to start something, and however far Cas wanted to take it was fine by him. This had nothing to do with work. It was purely selfish. Dean leaned in, eyes heavy, lips slightly parted.

Cas gasped his name and stepped back, colliding with the wall.

“Dean, you are not obligated to do anything to,” he winced, “earn your keep.” He stepped toward the living room, and gestured at the long brown couch. “It pulls out. If you prefer to be closer to Sam, I can take the couch and you can take my room.”

Dean sighed. “The couch is fine, Cas. Better’n fine.” Clearly he was pushing for a third date scenario and Cas was still in a first-date place. That was okay. He could wait.

* * *

 

“Sam,” Cas asked the next morning over toast, eggs, and bacon, “do you have any interest in the planetarium?” He knew he was mimicking the dream where Dean had made him pancakes, but sometimes his subconscious had good ideas, and taking Sam to see the planetarium sounded like one of them.

“We have a planetarium?” Sam asked, his fork hovering by his mouth.

“Yes. It’s at Union Station.”

Sam glanced at Dean whose nod was barely perceptible before responding. “Yeah. I’d love to go check it out.”

“I was thinking the three of us could go. If Dean is interested.”

"Wouldn't it put a crimp in your career if you're caught wandering around town with a wanted felon?" Dean raised his eyebrows at him.

"Trespassing is a Class B misdemeanor," Cas explained. "They didn't find you at the farmhouse, so they've assumed you're gone. They're not looking for you in any active way. I think we'll be safe."

Dean stuffed a triangle of toast into his mouth. “Yuff. Planegarum zounds goog.” Based on the movement of his head Cas concluded his answer was affirmative.

Sam’s face brightened. “I’d like that. A lot.”

Cas smiled. “Then it’s a plan.”

The planetarium was made to look as if they were entering a spaceship. Inside the big round screen room the show began by projecting the stars over the city, showing off the digital system and surround sound.

Dean stretched his arm around the back of both Sam and Cas’s chair, and as they reclined in the seats Cas leaned toward him, chiding himself that getting too close to Dean was a bad idea, but wanting it anyhow.

The announcer explained how human beings had first attempted to explain the night sky using mythology, and the projection system identified the constellations visible in Spring, showing first the stars connected by lines, and then the mythical being associated with them. Sam’s face was glowing, his mouth slightly open. The demonstration moved on to the solar system, with Sam gasping as they soared through the rings of Saturn. Dean had a similar expression of amazement, although whenever Cas glanced over Dean seemed to be watching him.

* * *

 

Dean missed a good chunk of the show, mesmerized by the wonder on Cas’ face and the solid feel of him against his arm. This was as close as he could come to hugging the guy in public, here at the rear of the darkened planetarium, and it felt good. Right. Comforting, even. He’d thought it would be weird, having Sam around Cas, but they two had meshed seamlessly, connecting over their Braniac interests. Dean thought Cas might be good for Sam. The kid could use a role model who shared a love of books and research and big ideas. God knows Dean wasn’t exactly the poster boy for staying in school. Maybe Cas was good for both of them in different ways.

Forty minutes later the show ended, the lights came up, and Dean sat there, feeling dazed. He glanced at his watch. It was later than he realized.

“It’s past lunch,” he announced. “How about we go back to Cas’ and I whip us up some Texas tacos?”

“That sounds great,” Cas said. “I could go for tacos.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Me too. Maybe with a salad?”

“You want salad, you’re making it,” Dean teased. They stood, stretched, and then walked stiffly toward the exit.

“Next time,” Cas said, “we should go to Science City. It’s supposed to be really good.”

“Are you thinking next weekend, or this week after school?” Sam asked.

Cas looked thoughtful. “I’ll ask how late they’re open on a weekday.” He hurried ahead to talk with an employee.

Sam bumped against his brother. “This is cool, huh?”

“What’s that?” Dean asked, distracted by a display of a space suit from the 1960s.

“You, me, Cas. It’s like having a family.”

Dean knew exactly what Sam was describing. That comfortable feeling of belonging.

“Do not go down that rabbit hole,” Dean warned, not sure if he was saying it for Sam’s benefit or his own. “It’s two weeks and then we’ll be sleeping at Bobby’s.”

“I know, I know.” Sam frowned. “But, do you understand what I’m describing? With Cas? It’s like he belongs somehow.”

Dean’s forehead wrinkled as he watched Cas talking with a Planetarium employee. “Oh yeah. I get it. I definitely get it.”

* * *

 

It was his holiday Monday, and Cas was itchy with the feeling that he should be working on his case again. He killed time cleaning things and then wandered out to collect his mail. The brown package that had arrived contained Crowley’s knife, the one he’d mailed to himself so it wouldn’t be found at the crime scene. He took it into the kitchen and slit the envelope, then removed the knife. The inscription on the blade didn’t look familiar. He wasn’t even sure what language it might be. Given his recent encounter with the two-face he wondered if the knife might be something in Dean’s area of expertise. He found the younger man in the living room, watching a show about doctors.

“Can I interrupt?” He asked.

Dean muted the volume and sat up. “Shoot. What’s on your mind? You need us to go?”

Cas frowned. Why did Dean always think he was about to be kicked out? Cas made a vow to make himself more welcoming toward Dean and his brother.

“No. I like having you here. Both of you.” He sat in an armchair and turned to face Dean. “This is about work. Mine, possibly yours as well. There’s a man who runs a local brothel. His name is Fergus Crowley.”

Dean’s face looked more serious than his seventeen years should allow. “I’ve heard of him. Go on.”

“He claims that the first victim, Rachel Nave, stole a valuable knife from him. This knife.” He passed it to Dean, handle first.

Dean ran a finger over the handle, which Cas thought might be antler or bone, and the engraving on the blade. “Anything special about it?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Castiel leaned in, squinting at the engraving. “I don’t recognize the language. Looks like Klingon to be honest.”

Dean raised his brows. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a Trekkie, Cas.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “I’m the child of an immigrant, not an alien.”

Dean wiggled his eyebrows. “Got a Starfleet uniform in your closet?”

Cas smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Dean’s flirting was becoming increasingly comfortable. At first he’d thought the youth might think he had to exchange sex for shelter, but now he wondered if Dean’s flirtations were something other than a survival mechanism. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

Dean examined the knife, checking it for balance. “You plan on givin’ this back to Crowley?”

“Not until I know if it’s been involved in a crime.” And maybe not even then, he added to himself. He just needed a reason that made him feel good about that decision. He bit a lip, remembering his encounter with the pimp. “I don’t like Crowley.”

Dean nodded, looking pleased. “How can I help?”

“I can look up the basics, but if it turns out to be in your field I wouldn’t even know where to start."

Dean stood, flourishing the knife with an impressive flick. “It’s got nice balance. You know, Sammy’s pretty good at figuring out this sorta thing.”

“Yeah?”

Dean grinned, transparently proud. “Yeah. He’s gonna be a great lawyer someday.” He looked determined for a moment, and Cas felt a pang as he imagined what Dean might have to do to pay for Sam’s schooling. Something possessive inside Cas rushed to the foreground of his mind, making demands and promises. Then Dean’s face cleared and he headed for the library, where Sam had sequestered himself with Cas’ book collection. “Hey Sam! You up for some research?”

* * *

 

Sam had lived in a lot of places. He liked some of them okay and some were just a place to sleep between car drives. But he was loving Cas’ place. Having his own room was a new experience. The bed was comfortable, and there was a table where he could do his homework. The privacy was definitely welcome. He’d never lived in a house with its own library before but he was starting to see it as a necessity. He knew they’d have to leave soon, but he was going to miss this place, and he was going to miss Cas. The guy was an adult, but he wasn’t condescending. He treated Sam like an equal, albeit one with less life experience. When Sam got top marks on his finals he showed them to Cas as well as to Dean.

Researching the knife was an exciting challenge. It wasn’t any language Sam recognized. He’d poking around using the laptop Principal Shurley had given him and eliminated a lot of possibilities. He suspected it might be a variant of Sorani, a Kurdish language, but the symbols didn’t match exactly. The only word he thought he’d identified with any certainty was an old word for demon. Rule 1 of studying supernatural artifacts was not to read any words aloud unless you knew what they did (he’d seen Evil Dead). Breaking that rule might get you sucked into an alternate dimension, trap your soul inside the object, or raise a demon. So he tread carefully and avoided mumbling anything.

Another problem was determining how old the knife was. The Bowie design and antler handle suggested post-1830s, so maybe the language was old but the knife wasn’t. The blade wasn’t magnetic. He thought it might be chromium or silver, but he wasn’t about to test its melting point. Rule 2 of studying supernatural artifacts was not to destroy them in the process.

There was a knock on the door. It was Cas.

“Care to take a break for a movie? I have the original Ghostbusters.”

Sam felt torn. He liked spending time with Cas, but he needed to get further ahead on his research. He had been trying to give Cas and Dean time alone, but having the three of them together was a pleasantly solid feeling. When it was just him and Dean he had to be alert, to protect Dean and avoid being a burden. But here at Cas’ it was like all that weight was off his shoulders. He felt free, like he could catch his breath and be a kid for a minute or two. He wasn’t used to the feeling, but he liked it. And he felt grateful to Cas for making it possible.

“Sounds like a plan.” Sam grabbed some pages he’d printed off in Cas’ library. “Is it okay if I bring my research?” He’d been doing some reading about the Vidalia Sandbar Fight of 1827, trying to determine if their mystery knife had been made prior to the Bowie design developed by blacksmith James Black.

“Of course.”

Sam set the knife and his notes on a small stack of books and carried them to the living room.

* * *

 

Dean brought a bowl of buttery popcorn into the living room. Cas’ couch could easily hold three people, especially if two of those people didn’t mind sitting closer than usual. Sam and Cas each sat sideways at opposite ends of the couch. Cas moved his legs to make room for him. Dean set the popcorn on the coffee table, then scooped up Cas’ legs and settled them across his lap, where their weight felt reassuring. Sam passed him a soda and Dean leaned forward to snag the bowl of popcorn back.

“Okay, guys. Who you gonna call?”

Cas hit play.

Dean laughed loudly at the scene of the hellhound breaking up Louis’ party, and the ache in his cheeks made him realize he’d been smiling for close to an hour now. It was unnatural, this warm feeling in his chest. It wasn’t something he should hang his heart on, as Bobby would say. Even if he wanted to stay, the city was too hot for them. And Cas had a job here, and a house. Two weeks wasn’t enough time for whatever this feeling inside him was tryin’ to be.

Dean glanced at Cas and licked salt from his lips. Still, all that aside, Cas was cool, and damn good looking. And if he ever got him into bed he was pretty sure Cas would be good. Dean ran a hand over the man’s white-socked feet, feeling the tendons leading to his toes. He took one foot and began to massage it, enjoying the quickly stifled moan it pulled from Cas’s throat. Sam glanced over, then back to the television, looking smug. Well, the kid could laugh all he wanted.

They had just arrived at the showdown with Gozer the Gozerian when all three of them turned sharply at the sound of Cas’ front door being kicked in.

Dean and Cas leaped to a stand. Dean recognized Alastair but the other two men were strangers.

“What the Hell, Crowley?” Cas moved toward the shortest man, ignoring his larger underlings.

“Funny you should mention Hell,” Crowley said, “because you have been getting me onto their naughty list this week.”

Crowley strolled into the room, glancing at the bowl of kernels and empty soda cans. The television image stuttered, went to static, and then shut off entirely.

“Well, well, boys. Imagine my surprise!” Crowley was practically purring. “I swing by to visit Officer Krushnik and find him getting all domestic with Dean Winchester.” His eyes twinkled at Dean and he made a disapproving ‘tsk tsk’ sound. “What would Captain Zachariah say?” His glance darted to Sam, who was had smoothly taken the knife from his stack of research notes and slipped it behind his back. “And the littlest Winchester too. Lucky me!”

“Leave them alone!” Cas ordered. He stepped toward Crowley, who gestured as if sending away a disappointing appetizer. Cas flew into a wall, sending a picture of a sailboat falling to the carpet.

Dean saw Cas wince and glance toward his bedroom, where his service weapon was locked in a gun safe. Situations like this were why Dean preferred to be armed at all times. He pulled his Colt M1911 A1 from his belt and aimed it at the goon nearest Cas.

“Step away from him.”

Crowley touched his cheeks with his fingertips, mocking worry. “Oh no! Don’t shoot Christian.”

“If he gets any closer I will,” Dean’s voice was a growl.

Christian smirked and took a step. Dean didn’t hesitate to put three bullets into the man’s chest. Christian stumbled from the impact then looked at his dress shirt with annoyance. “Aw Fuck. This shirt cost over two hundred dollars!” He looked at Dean and his eyes flickered to black.

Dean swore. Demons. These bastards were deadly as fuck and his best experiences with them involved a devils trap and a truckload of Latin. Dean had to give him credit, Cas didn’t freak. He stood by Dean and looked ready to go all martial arts on their asses.

Sam ran to Dean and hid his face against his chest, pretending to be frightened so he could slip the knife into his brother’s hand. Dean pushed Sam behind him and Cas. No matter how things went down with Crowley none of these black-eyed bastards were laying a finger on Sam.

Crowley grinned. “Let’s show the Winchesters how we run things here in Kansas City.”


	12. Chapter 12

Christian cracked his neck and revealed his teeth in a leer. “Who’s first?”

“That would be me.” Cas’ voice was tense and frightened, but he moved forward to protect the Winchesters. For a moment, Dean was stunned. Nobody had stepped between him and danger since his father had been alive. Dean felt his heart pound against his ribs. He might just love this guy a little.

“Bring it,” Christian taunted, flipping his hair back and extending his arms wide. “First hit’s free.”

Dean sucked in a breath, his muscles tight with impending violence. Cas’ cop instincts were going to get him killed. Before Cas could even cock a fist, Dean lunged, stabbing Christian in the chest with a smooth fluid motion, in and out. He hoped his attack would draw attention away from Cas, maybe piss the demon off and make him sloppy. He hadn’t expected its cold stare to flicker like a dying headlight and its body to drop lifeless to the floor. From the look on their faces, Alastair and Crowley hadn’t expected that either.

“I see you have my knife.” Crowley said, his voice short and clipped.

“Yours, huh?” Dean grinned and spun the knife in his hand. “Come and get it.”

Alastair moved forward but Crowley restrained him. “Later. You may rely on that.” He fell back, taking the bigger man with him.

Dean stared at the knife as if he’d found the Holy Grail. Well, the Holy Grail of killing demons anyway. He gripped Cas in a bear hug and kissed his cheek with a loud smack. “Best present ever, Cas!” The hug lasted a breath or two longer than necessary, but Dean didn’t think Cas minded.

* * *

 

Back at work on Tuesday, Captain Zachariah loudly berated two officers for losing the suspect’s head on their way to the morgue, but it didn’t put a dent in the jubilant mood of the station. Cops searching the apartment of Richard “Hippy” Chong had found a plethora of evidence tying him to the murders of Nave, Waldroff, and Gill. Once the haranguing was over, and the Captain had left for a meeting with the DA’s office, Cas’ colleagues lounged in the break room, laughing and trading stories about the weird shit they’d found at the killer’s lair.

Sergeant Campbell was the exception to the station’s happy vibe, but his insistence that Dean Winchester was Chong’s accomplice wasn’t getting much traction with his co-workers. They certainly hadn’t found anything at Chong’s apartment to tie Dean to any of the killings. Campbell’s fixation did, however, make Cas suspect he must be Crowley’s source of police information. He gave Campbell a neutral nod then casually poured himself a coffee. It was one thing to suspect a colleague was corrupt, but to suspect him of conspiring with demons took things to another level. He needed to be careful where Campbell was concerned.

But being careful didn’t mean following the rules the way it had before he met Dean. Today, for example, it meant erasing any reference to Sam and Dean from every file he could access. He emptied his computer’s temporary cache and erased his activity history, wondered if Donna Hanscum would agree that demonic criminals called for extraordinary measures. He wondered how many cops had encountered something supernatural and just kept their mouths shut. He bet Sergeant Turner had seen some weird shit in his time.

Cas had begun compiling his own record of known or suspected supernatural activity in the area. He’d become a cop because he’d wanted to protect people from violent, cruel, and unscrupulous people. Since meeting Dean his sense of what that might entail had changed, but the day-to-day of the job remained much the same.

Uniforms had brought a loudly complaining Meg in for her witness statement. Behind the scenes, Cas nudged her release along quickly and used the last of his discretionary fund to send her home in a cab. It was fine for his colleagues to goof around; they were still getting paid, but every minute Meg sat in holding was money out of her pocket.

At five thirty he finished his research, put the files into his desk, locked it, and sat staring at the drawer. If anything happened to him, which seemed likely now that he was on Crowley’s shit list, whoever cleaned out his desk would think he’d been having mental health issues for some time. If he needed to leave town suddenly he might not have time to retrieve his files. He unlocked the drawer and spent the next hour digitizing the files and moving them to an online storage site. Then he cleaned his computer of anything Crowley’s men might be able to track and tossed the hard copies of his files into the incinerator on his way out.

* * *

 

Dean parked the Impala in front of Gabe’s diner and sat in the late afternoon sunshine, his hand sweating into the stack of papers gripped in his fist. He’d spent two hours at the library, copying pages from his own hunting journal and that of his father’s until he had a set he was happy with. Then he headed to the corner to wait for Meg. Forty minutes later he spotted her stepping out of a taxi.

“Wow.” Meg smirked at him and slid a hand lasciviously across the Impala’s hood and leaned into the driver side window. “How many monsters had to die before you could afford this sweet ride?”

“Just the one.” Dean grinned, knowing his father wouldn’t have appreciated the joke. “Speakin’ of,” he extended his hand passing her the stack of copies. “Thought you might find this handy.”

Meg flipped the stack open and perused a few pages. “My own Dungeon Masters Guide?”

Dean shrugged. “Someone’s gotta keep people safe out here. That covers the creepy-crawlies you’re likely to run into and how to take them down. I’m heading outta state, but my number’s in there. If you need advice or backup, give me a shout.”

Meg looked thoughtful. “You really think I could do what you do?”

He grinned, remembering how she had given Chong’s corpse one hell of a shitkicking. “You’ll wanna get a pair of steel toed shoes, but yeah. You got guts.”

Meg slid the papers into her jacket and zipped it up. “Sweet talker. I’m gonna miss you.” She chewed at her bottom lip. “Hot Foot Guy going with you?”

Dean shook his head, trying to keep his face from betraying his feelings. “Nah. His life is here.”

Meg raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Sure I’m sure.” Dean said his goodbyes and pulled out of the lot.

* * *

 

Saturday morning Cas watched as Dean ate breakfast with his mouth open and tried to find the habit disgusting. He’d welcome anything to dam the lust flooding through him when it came to Dean. His brain resisted but his heart had no problem envisioning the Winchesters in his future.

It was easy to like Sam. The boy was smart, helpful, and hard working. He willingly washed dishes and vacuumed. Cas wondered what university scholarships or grants might be available for someone like Sam. He should look into that.

It was far too easy to like Dean. Just having food and shelter this week had made the hunter giddy like a child, and Cas wondered how he might blossom if his life were more stable. Of course having Dean around meant reining in his libido and dodging the teen’s attempts to show his appreciation for the food and lodging. Dean was beautiful, and a lot of men would have taken advantage of his need for security and affection to get him into their bed. Cas refused to be one of those men.

Complicating the situation was that fact that Cas wasn’t sure how much of what he’d learned about ‘Robert’ applied to the real Dean Winchester. It was possible that some of his attraction was to a performance Dean did. And the heroic nature of Dean’s calling didn’t exactly clear the waters. Cas hated to think he was just a fanboy. Even at seventeen Dean had probably had his share of that kind of attention.

They spent the evening watching a show that Dean liked about doctors, while he rubbed Cas’ feet. Cas had pretended to have a foot fetish before, but he might be developing one now. Dean’s hands sent tingles over his entire body. Sam only had a week of school left, but Cas couldn’t help wishing the Winchesters didn’t have to leave. He let his heart spin fantasies of family that his brain pitied him for having.

* * *

 

Sunday morning Dean woke unexpectedly happy and energized, feeling rested and strong. This must be what people feel like when they hadn’t slept on a hardwood floor, or sitting up in a car, or camped in a storm culvert. Regular people. He showered and shaved, examining himself in the mirror. He didn’t have the kind of face you saw in magazines or television shows, but all the pieces were in the right place and his nose was straight, despite the number of times it’d been broken. He ran his fingertips across his lips, remembering how Cas had kissed him at the drive-in. One more movie and he might have handed Cas his gay V-card. He took a moment to imagine exactly what that might have been like then grinned at his reflection and threw it a wink.

“You got a dirty mind, Winchester,” he muttered.

Dean dressed and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast. Sam was an early riser and he wanted to have time to prepare something nutritious. Back when John was alive they’d often skipped breakfast, and since his death the brothers had started too many mornings with only a slice of bread with peanut butter as they rushed out the door. Dean needed to do better for Sam, and this morning, in Cas’ fully stocked kitchen, he could.

When Sam shuffled in wearing pyjamas and bedhead, Dean was frying eggs and dancing to Joe Cocker singing You Can Leave Your Hat On. He winked at Sam and slid across the linoleum in his socks, poured a glass of orange juice, and set it in front of the boy before spinning back to the stove with a flourish of spatula.

“You’re happy this morning.” Sam used the juice to wash down a multivitamin. Cas had bought a large bottle and insisted they start taking them.

Dean smirked over his shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a gorgeous Sunday and you and me and Cas are hitting Science City. So eat up and then we gotta wake Cas. He’s a grouchy cuss in the morning.” Dean shook his head, and Sam saw the unguarded affection in his face.

Dean slid eggs and bacon onto a plate and set it in front of his brother before starting another breakfast. To his right the toaster popped and Sam snatched the hot slices then put two more in for Dean.

Sam grinned as he dragged the toast through egg yolk. “So, you and Cas, huh?”

Dean frowned at the eggs sizzling in the pan. “What about me and Cas?” Sure, Dean had an obvious crush, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it.

“You like him, he likes you,” Sam gestured with the toast. “You should date.”

“I can’t _date_ Cas.” Dean transferred his food to a plate and sat across from Sam. This was an argument he’d been having with himself since they’d arrived.

“Why not?”

Dean sighed. Sam had no idea how complicated the world got. He was only fourteen. Of course Dean’s recollection of being that age was different, since he’d been killing monsters on the regular by then.

“Lots of reasons, Sammy.” Like how he’d screwed up the possibility of dating by taking Cas’ money to let him do whatever he wanted, even if that turned out to be G-rated. Or how he got a jolt of panic when he imagined Bobby and the rest of the hunting world finding out he might be into guys. There were lots of reasons that dating Cas was doomed from the get-go. Sam could take his pick. Except Dean wasn’t about to go into any of that. He was gonna lie, big time.

“I’m a hunter, Sam. ‘Happy ever after’ ain’t in the cards.” The toast popped. Dean smeared peanut butter on a slice, folded it in half, and stuffed it into his mouth. Cas didn’t believe in white bread, so all he had was this multigrain shit. Still, with enough peanut butter it wasn’t bad.

“Dad had mom.” Sam was shifting into lawyer gear.

“Dad wasn’t hunting when he and mom were together.” Dean swallowed a mouthful of hot, fatty egg, which he washed down with coffee. Cas bought damn good coffee.

“You know I wouldn’t mind, right?” Sam asked. “You and Cas being together?”

“Yeah. I got that.” Dean smirked. Sam was practically doodling their names with little hearts around them.

“I don’t think Bobby’d care either.”

“You don’t know that.” Dean downed his coffee and went for a refill.

“I do, Dean. Trust me on this.” Sam looked at him with eyes out of a Disney cartoon.

Dean stabbed his egg with a fork. “Listen, I know your generation is all down with the rainbow or what-have-you, but men like Bobby—like Dad—they come from a different time. They’re set in their ways.”

Dean tried not to dwell on negative memories of his father, but he remembered the words his old man had spit when they’d seen two guys holding hands in Nashville, and they hadn’t been supportive. Dean was pretty sure that if he’d ever come out his father would have let his fists do the talking.

“Bobby’s friendly with the couple that run the hardware,” Sam argued.

“Those are _lesbians_.” Dean popped a strip of crispy bacon into his mouth. It was better than sex. Well, the sex he’d had so far. He suspected that sex with Cas might top bacon.

“It’s the same thing,” Sam insisted.

“It’s really not.” If Sam didn’t see how fantasies of a three-way might factor into a straight man’s attitude toward lesbians then Dean wasn’t going to explain it. Even if the lesbians in question dressed like Bobby and could toss a hundred pound bag of feed like it was nothing. Still, Dean was only human, and once the flannels came off…he lost a moment wondering what having sex with a woman that strong would be like. He wondered how strong Cas was, and if he’d learned any interesting moves in his police training. Dean shook his head to clear it. His mind had worn a groove in the direction of Cas.

“Soon as you’re done school we’re gonna head to Bobby’s,” Dean explained. “Cas’s whole life is in Kansas City.” Seeing Sam’s face fall he added, “We’ll keep in touch.”

“So what, you’re never going to have a relationship your whole life?”

Dean sighed. “Sounds about right.” A relationship would mean being honest about what he did. He’d need someone who could keep a secret, understood the shitty hours a hunter had to keep, and could handle themselves in a fight. Someone like Cas, his traitorous heart suggested. But again, he overruled it. It wasn’t gonna happen. They would have fun today and Dean would be grateful for the time they had.

‘Well if you’re going to have _anything_ with Cas you’d better get your ass in gear, Dean. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.” Sam rinsed his plate in the sink and slipped it into the dishwasher. “I’ll go wake him.”

Dean rinsed his own plate and started cooking breakfast for Cas. Sam had a point. If anything was going to happen between him and Cas it needed to happen soon.

* * *

 

Cas leaned back against a support beam at Science City, watching Sam and Dean play with robots they’d just made themselves. He could get used to seeing them relaxed and laughing. It made his heart warm. Finally a voice on the loudspeaker announced the center would soon be closing for the day and they slowly moved toward the door, their minds on food.

“Hey,” Dean clasped Cas by the hand. “Thanks for this. For today, for the Planetarium, the place to stay, the food, everything.” He squeezed Cas’ hand but didn’t release it.

Cas squeezed back. “Thanks for saving my life from a serial killing cannibal monster. You have an interesting job.”

Dean huffed. “We basically have the same job, Cas. Only there’s no such thing as monster jail.”

Cas looked thoughtful. “That’s an idea.”

Dean shook his head. “Don’t even go there. Who wants to break up a cell fight between a vampire and a crocatta?”

“I don’t even know what that second thing is.”

Dean laughed. “They don’t get a lot of movie exposure.”

Cas glanced to where Sam was engrossed in a conversation with the young woman who’d helped him make his robot.

“Can I ask you something, Dean?”

“Shoot.” Dean looked worried.

Cas leaned in and he could catch the woodsy sweet scent that he now knew came from the old papers and spell ingredients Dean used so often. “How much of Robert was real?”

Dean frowned. “There never was a Robert.”

Cas felt his guts plummet.

“I was just me when I was with you,” Dean added. “A broke, desperate me, but still me. Using the fake name made things seem…easier.”

“Oh.” Cas felt relief pulse through him, relaxing his muscles and making him realize how tense he’d been.

“S’pose I should ask the same thing, Mister Novack.” Dean fixed him in a wary stare. “Your mom, the sexual inexperience, all that stuff. That just to get your suspect talking?”

Cas looked away. “Most of what I said was true. It was easy to talk to you.”

Dean sucked his lower lip nervously. “And the drive-in? Was that really you? Cause I haven’t seen much of that guy lately.”

Cas swallowed and his eyes darted to Dean’s mouth. “I meant that too.” He leaned closer, practically whispering. “Did you?’

Dean grinned. “Every second.”

Cas tensed. Dean was going to kiss him. He could tell. And as much as he wanted that he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. The boys were heading to South Dakota at the end of the week. He didn’t want Dean to leave feeling used.

Cas pulled away as Sam loped up. “They’re closing up now. We should go.”

“Yes,” Cas said, stepping back from Dean. “We should.” He put a hand on the shoulder of each Winchester. “How do you feel about pizza tonight?”

* * *

 

Later that evening as Dean read a magazine article about restoring vintage Mustangs, Sam’s warning kept echoing in his head, tick-tock, tick-tock. He’d tried to put some moves on Cas at the Science Center, but the pretty cop didn’t seem to be meeting him halfway. Not even a quarter of the way. Dean wondered if he was sending the wrong signals or if Cas was just crap at receiving them. It was like they were speaking totally different languages.

He glanced anxiously at the door. It was just him and Sam, alone in the room Dean thought of as the library. Cas was in his bedroom, talking to the facility where his mother lives, getting an update on her health, so there was no time like the present.

“Hey Sammy.”

No response. Sam’s attention stayed fixed on a book called _American Jurisprudence_ , Dean rolled up the magazine, leaned forward, and swatted his brother in the shoulder. Sam grunted in reply.

Dean shuffled closer and lowered his voice. “If you had something you wanted to translate into Russian, how’d you do it?”

“Internet.” Sam kept his eyes on the book. Dean wondered if his brother’s interest in the law might be something other than boredom. Studying cars helped keep Dean feeling like a normal guy, despite his whole hunting-the-powers-of-darkness gig. Maybe the law was Sam’s version of that.

“And if you wanted to get it right?” Dean swallowed. The room felt hot and stuffy suddenly. “Say, to impress a certain Russian-speaking friend?”

“Oh?” Oh!” Sam looked up, his serious expression making him look older than fourteen. “There’s a Russian community center in Overland Park. I’d go there.”

Dean nodded. “Overland Park. Thanks, man.”


	13. Chapter 13

 “Hey Sipowicz, got a minute?”

Cas looked up to see a familiar man leaning over his desk, wearing a bright yellow Hawaiian shirt. He smelled like chocolate, grease, and coffee beans.

“It’s Gabriel isn’t it? From the diner.”

Gabe nodded, his eyes darting around as if someone might be watching them.

“What can I do for you?” Cas asked, wondering how the man had managed to get past reception and security.

“Gotta place we can talk?” Gabe shifted a candy in his mouth, and Cas heard it click against the man’s teeth.

“Let me check.” Cas accessed the station’s room booking system. Interview room three was empty. “I can only spare a few minutes.”

“That’s all I need.”

Interview room three was small and grey. Cas arranged his face into the expression of friendly concern he’d practiced for talking to members of the public.

Gabe leaned against the door, looking intently at him. Cas felt his muscles tense, as if expecting an attack.

“If you’re here to ask about the homicides,” Cas said, “I can’t talk about open cases.”

Gabe raised a finger. “I only want to know one thing. And that’s your connection to Fergus Crowley.”

All the friendliness left Cas’ face. “If Crowley sent you to—“

“Relax, kid.”

Unexpectedly, Cas did. He felt an odd sensation, as if Gabe were rifling through his thoughts and memories—his first meeting with Crowley, his confrontation with Alastair at the grocery store, the demons invading his home, the death of Christian, and his suspicions of Campbell. It wasn’t painful, but Cas imagined this was how a filing cabinet might feel.

“Wow,” Gabe said. “You got it bad for Dean Winchester, don’tcha?” He chuckled and the candy clicked again.

Cas gripped his head as if expecting physical damage.

Gabe raised his eyebrows. “You felt that? Interesting. Most people never even know it happened.”

“What the hell did you do?”

Gabe raised a palm. “Just a little looking around. Honest.”

Cas took a step forward. Gabe was definitely not human, but he wasn’t the weirdest thing Cas had encountered this month. Not even close. “What’s your connection to Crowley?”

“Let’s just say he plays for the other team.”

“So you’re what, exactly?” Cas narrowed his eyes. Crowley was a demon, so what was the ‘other team?’ Was Gabe talking angels, or supernatural beings with a moral compass?

“I’m an interested party. Your homicide victims were all friends of mine.” For the first time since his arrival Gabe looked serious, and angry. “And I hate it when people hurt my friends.”

“And you think Crowley is directly involved?” Cas thought about it. Crowley had employed Rachel Nave and suspected her of stealing his knife, and maybe she had, since it ended up in Meg’s possession. But perhaps the demon had a closer relationship with the two-face than he’d let on. Maybe he’d offered a bounty on Nave, inciting attacks against her and her coworkers. It wasn’t an outrageous theory.

“Don’t you? None of us wants a repeat of what happened. Amirite?”

Cas nodded. He didn’t want some new predator moving in now that Chong was gone.

“Let me handle Crowley,” Gabe proposed. “You’re a good cop, kid, but you’re not exactly equipped to conquer the forces of darkness.”

“And you are?”

Gabe shrugged, as if someone had just complimented him on his fabulous hair. “I have my moments.”

“I’m not opposed to collaborating,” Cas said finally. With Dean leaving soon he could use contacts that knew about the supernatural. “I have to get back to work,” Cas scribbled on the back of his business card, “but here’s my cell number. Call if you find anything I should know about.”

Gabe pocketed the card. “How about sexting? Naughty pic exchange?”

Cas’ cold gaze quelled the flirtation. He did have it bad for Dean, he supposed.

Gabe stepped away from the door. “Send that Campbell guy in here, would ya? There’s a good boy.”

Cas felt the praise warm him like hot chocolate on a cold day. Whatever this guy was, he had some interesting capabilities. Interesting and potentially dangerous.

“I feel no obligation to protect a cop who’s working for Crowley,” Cas said, his voice low as he opened the door. “But if we’re going to work together you need to stop with the mind control.”

“Felt that too, huh?” Gabe’s mouth quirked to the side. “You sure you’re human?”

Cas rolled his eyes and stepped outside.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult!” Gabe shouted after him.

“Campbell.” Cas looked down at the bald-headed man, who was either engrossed in his paperwork or pretending to be.

“That’s _Sergeant_ Campbell to you, Kroos-neck,” Campbell groused. When he failed to get a reaction he looked up. “What do you want?” Campbell’s face, as was often the case, was sweaty and red. Cas noted his rounded fingernails. Campbell was probably coming up on a heart attack, but a bad cop could hurt a lot of people in a short amount of time.

Cas smiled, and this time the expression was entirely genuine. “There’s a visitor for you in room three.”

* * *

 

After dropping Sam at school Dean headed toward Overland Park. It was time to put his plan into action.

The hardwood floor creaked as he crept down the hall. Last room on the right, the lady at the desk had said. The room had no door, but the heavy black curtains and dim light made it feel like he was entering another country or another time.

The man was sitting on a chair, holding a Russian newspaper, his long legs stretched in front of him. Getting closer Dean could see that he was old, with shoulder-length hair and a bushy grey beard. His vest and collarless shirt made him look like a wild west Sherriff gone to seed.

“Excuse me, Sir?” His father had drilled a number of values into him, and respect for his elders was one of them. “Mr. Cain?” He wondered if the old man had nodded off and extended a hand.

“I’m awake.” The voice was surprisingly forceful. The man set his paper on a table and turned to examine the newcomer. The Russian had extremely blue eyes, which reminded Dean of Cas, although Cas’ were brighter. “What can I do for you?”

Dean could hear his accent now, thick and heavy, like Chekov on Star Trek.

“I, uh, I’m looking for a way to tell someone I like them in Russian,” Dean nodded toward the door. “Folks at the front desk said you were the guy to talk to.”

“I suppose I am.” Cain gestured for him to sit and Dean perched on the edge of an old sofa. The old man looked at Dean as if measuring him for a coffin. “ _ты говоришь по-русски_? [You speak Russian?],” he asked.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.” Dean wiped his hands on his pants, feeling nervous.

“Clearly not.” Cain narrowed his eyes. “What languages _can_ you speak?”

“English, obviously.” Dean ran a hand through his hair. He was getting a strong ‘do _not_ lie to me’ vibe from this guy. “Bit of Latin, some Ancient Greek.” He knew a bit of Sumerian and Enochian, but unless you wanted a demon exorcized, his vocabulary was limited.

“A Classics student.”

“Kinda.” Dean turned his head as a rattling sound from the hall grew closer. Then a tea cart was wheeled into the room and left between them. There was a bowl of sugar, a pitcher of milk, and a pot of jam.

Cain poured out two cups and gestured toward the pitcher and bowl, brows raised in question.

“Milk and sugar, please.” Dean added “Thanks” as Cain passed him the cup and saucer. The tea was too hot to drink so he held them on his knee, feeling awkward. Cain took his tea black.

“So,” Cain’s voice was a low grumble, “who is this girl you want to impress?”

Dean hesitated. “It’s a friend of mine. A male friend.” He gritted his teeth and waited for the inevitable homophobic rant.

Cain raised his head, considering Dean. “You are fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Seventeen, Sir.” So maybe it was just going to be the ‘You’re too young to know what you want’ rant.

“And how old is this _friend_ of yours?”

“Twenty-two.” Dean said the number like a shotgun cocking. Five years seemed like a fine age difference to him, but maybe it wouldn’t seem that way to other people.

Cain waved a hand. “You are babies.”

Dean smirked and shook his head. This guy had no idea the kind of shit Dean had seen and done in his life. And Cas had been a trooper. Not everyone could adjust to knowing the planet was one big monster buffet, but Cas had grabbed a weapon and started swinging. Guys like them were basically soldiers, whatever age they were. Dean tried not to look as offended as he felt. He’d had practice, with John Winchester as a father.

“Maybe so, Sir. But I’d like to be a baby who speaks a bit of Russian.”

Cain took a spoonful of jam and put it in his mouth before sipping his tea. The old man watched him steadily.

Dean slurped his tea and contorted his mouth at the burn. “Look, Mister,” he said, his voice gruff, “I’ll drink tea all day if it gets me what I need. But I do need it.”

“What do you want to say?” Cain asked.

“I made a list.” Dean set the cup and saucer on the tea tray, pulled a sweat-damp paper from his pocket, and passed it over.

Cain chuckled as he scanned the list. “You want an endearing insult?”

Dean blushed. “Yeah. Something that says, ‘Don’t ever change.’ You got one?”

“I will help.” Cain looked at Dean then leaned over the tea tray and scooped jam onto a second spoon. “But first you try the tea with the jam.”

* * *

 

Crowley was having a busy day.

“I need those numbers on the St. Louis operation and the ETA on that truck of Asian birds,” he snapped as at Alastair as they barreled down the hall to his office. He would never admit to missing Christian, but his days did seem more stressful without him. So few demons knew how to give a good neck massage. “And get a replacement for Christian. Someone from the minors we can mold.” Crowley’s expensive Italian shoes had taken a few steps onto his Persian carpet before he noticed the trickster behind his desk.

He strode around behind his chair and extended an arm, inviting Gabriel to fuck off.

“I don’t have time for your frivolity today, Darling.” Gabe vacated the chair and Crowley sat heavily into it, grimacing at the warmth in the seat. “Perhaps if you bothered to make an appointment….”

Gabriel looked up at Alastair, and shoved a hand through the tall man’s chest cavity. Alastair’s body burst with light then went dark and limp. Gabe pulled his arm free and gave it a flick, flinging gore onto the rug. The body collapsed at his feet.

“Got time now?” Gabriel asked.

Crowley laid his head in his hands and scrubbed his face with his fleshy palms. This was such a shite day.

“What can I do for you?”

“You can leave town, or die in your office. Take your pick! I really hope you go with what’s behind door number two.”

“Why so testy?” Crowley purred. “Haven’t we always had an understanding? Live and let live? I don’t gossip about your masquerade as a mortal and you don’t interfere with my investment in fleshy capitalism. What’s gotten you all Avenging Angel?”

In the blink of an eye Gabriel was across his desk and grabbing Crowley’s shirt in his bloody fist.

“Hmmm…let’s see…” Gabriel’s face went hard and Crowley could see the fury of an archangel behind his honey-colored eyes. “It must’ve been when you allowed a fucking _Winyan Nupa_ to eat three of my friends.”

“I just rent the space,” Crowley argued, his voice hoarse. “I can’t help it if a tenant threw a messy party.”

“What’s it gonna be?” Gabe asked. “Midnight train to Georgia or does the stain on this Ghali get bigger?” He glanced over to Alastair’s leaking meatsuit.

“I’ve always wanted to visit the Peach State,” Crowley said, straightening his stained shirt. “Is tomorrow morning soon enough for my ignominious departure? I have business obligations. Can’t leave people in the lurch.”

“If you’re not gone by lunch tomorrow I’m going to burn out your inky soul,” Gabriel promised.

“Message received and understood.”

Before he could fully exhale Crowley found himself alone in his office. He pressed a button on the intercom.

“Evie Darling, send our clients on their merry way and gather all the girls into the lounge. We’re moving shop tonight.”

* * *

 

On Wednesday evening Dean showered, shaved, and then pushed his hair around trying to get it to look good. Cas’ place had a washer and drier and Dean enjoyed not basing his clothing choices on what stank the least. He put on his best jeans and tried on a few t-shirts, settling on the Led Zeppelin. He pocketed his Russian notes, headed down the hall, and knocked on the door to his brother’s room, waiting until Sam gave him the okay to enter. Dean knew better than to walk unexpectedly into the bedroom of a fourteen-year-old boy, mostly because he’d been one himself.

When he entered the room Sam was using the laptop, a book open on the bed beside him. Dean smiled. The kid had one day of school left but he managed to find stuff to study.

Sam stopped typing and glanced up. “You look nice. Going out?”

Dean shook his head. This was gonna be awkward.

“Nope. Staying in. But you, uh, you might want to use the headphones for a while. I’m gonna have a talk with Cas.”

Sam’s face took on a suspicious glare. “If there something you don’t want me to—oh. Oh!” Dean watched his brother’s face contort as the mental penny dropped. “Gross Dean.” Sam pulled a set of earbuds from his backpack and hooked them into the laptop. “But it’s about time. Enjoy your _talk_.”

Dean grinned. “Listen to something loud.”

Sam mimed vomiting as Dean closed the door behind him.

Dean took a deep breath and tried to ignore the anxious churning in his gut. Worst case scenario, if Cas kicked them to the curb, he and Sam could sleep in the Impala until they headed to Bobby’s.

He cornered Cas outside his study. “Can we talk?”

“Of course.” He stepped aside so Dean could enter. “In here?”

“Yeah, sure.”

As soon as Cas closed the door, Dean spoke. “Listen, I’m not gonna pretend there’s anything normal about how you and me met.”

Cas smiled. “If meeting you has taught me anything, Dean, it’s that something doesn’t have to be normal to be good.”

“Thanks. Meeting you was good too.” He paced between the windows and the far wall. He wanted to make a move, but first he needed to make sure they were on the same page. He didn’t want Cas regretting anything. “You know I wasn’t _just_ hunting the two-face when you met me. You get that, right?”

Cas nodded and put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, stopping his pacing. “You made sacrifices to take care of Sam. I admire that.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean felt self-conscious. His father hadn’t ever acknowledged that Dean made sacrifices, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have counted being a whore as one of them. Cas didn’t seem to attach any judgment to the job. It was one of the things Dean loved about the guy. Liked. He meant liked.

Dean moved on to his second point. “You get that hunting is what I _do_. Today, tomorrow, next week, twenty years from now. I’ll still be a hunter.” From the way Cas tilted his head and squinted at him Dean wasn’t sure the guy was seeing his point. He continued. “I don’t have potential, like Sam. I’m always gonna be broke and doing stuff outside the law. It comes with the job.”

Cas looked as if he were about to protest but Dean raised a hand and cut him off. He closed in, mere inches away.

“It’s okay. I’m fine with it.” He reached out and ran a hand down Cas’ chest, feeling the buttons of his shirt under his fingertips. “But the next four days is all the you-and-me I’m gonna get.” He risked a glance into Cas’ eyes, and damn, those pupils of his were enormous. “And I’d like to have as much _us_ as I can, if you get my drift. ”

“Dean.” Cas licked his lower lip and damn if that wasn’t enticing right there. “You’re a beautiful young man, and if the situation were different—”

Dean could feel rejection coming. It was time to pull out the big guns.

“ _Я так хочу тебя_ ,” he said, making the sounds he’d practiced all morning and late into the night before.

Cas’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

Shit. Dean was pretty sure he’d said it right, but Cas was looking at him like he’d just recommended the music of Jefferson Starship.

* * *

 

Cas must be having the most vivid dream of his life. Dean was so close he could feel his body heat, and he was speaking Russian. The words, intriguing in themselves, were exceptionally arousing in that deep voice of his. Cas didn’t know what to do, and found himself immobile.

“Shit. Did I say it wrong?” Dean pulled a paper from his pocket and frowned at it. “ _Я так хочу тебя_?” He said the words haltingly, but Cas felt his pulse race and his breath caught in his chest. He so wanted that to be true.

“You said, ‘I want you so much.’” The heat rushed to his face as he said the words back, meaning every syllable of them. He _did_ want Dean, but he was used to wanting things he couldn’t have. Growing up poor had inured him to that. Almost.

“Good.” Dean relaxed. “For a minute I though I was gonna hafta go punch an old Russian guy.”

Cas smiled, basking in Dean’s pleased expression. “You said it just fine.” He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Dean couldn’t mean this, could he?

“I’m legal, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Dean’s gaze was like a caress Cas could almost feel on his skin

“It’s not.” He knew exactly how old Dean was; he’d pulled his birth certificate when he investigated him.

“Is it the hooker thing?” Dean winced as if bracing for an emotional blow.

“Not at all.” Cas rested his forehead against his, desperately wanting to kiss the pained expression away.

“Then dammit, Cas, what’s the problem?” Dean’s mouth nudged against his ear and his body responded with willing anticipation.

Cas sighed. He was weak. Too weak. Dean didn’t need another person asking him to put his body on the line. He’d suffered enough of that.

“I know you feel beholden to me, but you don’t—”

“Shut up.” Dean cut him off. “This isn’t about me owing you. I know what I want. The only question is if you’ll let me have it.”

And then Dean’s strong arms wrapped around him and his mouth was prodding against Cas’ own, seeking a response. They’d kissed before, at the drive-in, but this felt different. Before, he’d been thinking about his job, his duty to the case, and the information he was supposed to be getting. In this moment, with Dean’s tongue tracing this lower lip, he was just a bookish immigrant’s kid with no real friends, who’d only had sex with one other person in his entire life. It was terrifying. But soon Dean would be gone, maybe forever, and he’d spend the rest of his nights wondering about what might have been.

It might be the worst idea ever, but Cas really wanted to know what he’d be missing.

* * *

 

The plan was working. Cas had been hesitant at first, but eventually he’d allowed Dean to lead him out of the study and into the bedroom. Dean was confident that if he could get them undressed that sex was inevitable. He didn't know what that might entail, but he knew he was gonna like it.

Cas dimmed the lights.

“What's next?” Dean teased. “Romantic music?”

Cas’ face lit up. “Yes. I think that might be appropriate.” He fumbled with a stereo on his dresser. It only took split second for Dean to recognize the opening guitar strains.

“Ride The Lightning? That’s your sex soundtrack?” He laughed.

Cas shrugged. “I bought it a while back. Meg said you found this band romantic, so I wanted to listen to it. They’re very…emphatic. I like it.”

Dean hooked a finger under Cas’ chin, bringing his face up. “You are so freakin’ perfect.” He kissed him again, all slow lips, and tongue, until Cas made an adorable whimpering sound. He inhaled deeply, and Cas’ warm, musky scent went straight to his head, leaving him dizzy.

“I haven’t done this before,” Cas admitted, close to Dean’s ear. “I mean, once with a woman, but—”

Dean mouthed at Cas’ neck, feeling the stubble drag against his lips. “Relax. You’re smart, and I’m good with my hands. We’ll figure it out.” He pulled their hips together in a gentle grind, gasping as he felt Cas hard against him.

Dean pulled his t-shirt off and then started to unbutton Cas’ shirt, his heart pounding as if he were unwrapping the world’s best Christmas present. He dropped the shirt to the floor and ran his hands up Cas’ back, enjoying the muscles under his palms. Cas felt solid, real, and strong. Dean’s dick swelled inside his jeans and he stifled a laugh. There was no need to picture hot celebrity babes; his body reacted to Cas just fine.

“Bed?” Cas asked.

Dean grinned and threw himself backward, bouncing lightly on the mattress. Cas crawled up Dean’s body, caging him in with his arms.

Dean made a sound of surprise when Cas latched onto a nipple, teasing it to rigidity with his tongue and teeth. Dean’s groans and pleas were swallowed by the driving music. He pulled back, causing Cas’ teeth to scrape, which was intense, but not in a bad way. He pushed the heel of his hand against the bulge in Cas’ pants.

“Can we please get naked?” he begged.

Cas nodded vigorously, and they quickly shucked the rest of their clothes, pausing when they reached their briefs.

“Are you nervous?” Cas asked, gently.

“You’re nervous,” Dean teased, knowing they both saw through it. “On three?”

Cas gave a nod.

“One, two, three.” Dean slid his briefs off, ignoring the way his erection caught on the fabric, causing it to slap wetly against his stomach. His attention was fixed on Cas—his broad shoulders, the tan skin of his chest, the V of his abdomen leading down to a handful of dark curls, and the thick dick leaking across his stomach. Dean wanted every inch of him. He rocked forward and soon they were sliding against each other, their hips moving in unison.

“Tell me what you want,” Dean gasped, “Anything. Just say the word.”

Cas bit his bottom lip, swollen and red. “Remember when I said I fantasized about vigorous sex?”

“We can do that.” Before, the thought of Cas fucking him had churned up fears about pain, humiliation, and raised uncomfortable questions about his masculinity. But with Cas sliding against him like this, he couldn’t care less. Dean wanted him any way he could get him. “How do you want me?”

Cas hid his face in the crook of Dean’s shoulder. “I imagined being on the receiving end.”

“Oh?” Dean’s eyes went wide. “Oh! Hell yeah. We can do that.” A sudden worry occurred that he might hurt Cas. He took a few deep breaths. He’d need to take this slow.

“I have stuff.” Dean jerked a head toward his pants, on the floor. Cas moved to the side and Dean rummaged for a moment, and rolled back with a condom and pack of lube. He tried not to recall the reason he’d bought these, but his stint working the corner pushed its way in, leaving him feeling dirty. As if reading his mind Cas gripped his wrist, pinning it to the bed, and leaned in to kiss him.

“You’re amazing,” he muttered against Dean’s mouth. “Don’t ever think otherwise.”

“I’ve done some pretty ugly stuff, Cas.”

“Ugly things have happened to you.” Cas kissed his collarbone and then his chest. “But they didn’t break you.” He kissed Dean’s stomach and Dean’s muscles clenched as Cas mouthed his way south. “They make you beautiful. Resilient.”

Dean gasped as Cas enveloped him, his tongue seeking his most sensitive places. As Cas started to bob his head Dean gripped two fistfuls of blanket and thought about transmission repair. He pictured removing the bolts from the panel, and draining the fluid, but with Cas going to town on him, the images seemed sexier than usual.

“Cas I’m running outta unsexy shit to think about,” he pleaded. “You gotta stop unless you want me to come.”

Cas pulled up, leaving Dean’s dick wet and shiny. “You’re seventeen, Dean. You’ll be hard again in fifteen minutes. Come whenever you want.” He swallowed him down again.

“Cas. Oh hell. Oh Cas!” Dean’s balls pulled tight. Every muscle in his body tensed and released, tearing a wet sob from his throat.

He hadn't been wrong. Dean was hard again before he’d even worked a third finger into Cas, whose slick insides felt beautifully soft and hot. His muscles gripped Dean’s fingers in a tight squeeze before relaxing, and imagining being inside was enough to make Dean's dick ache and throb. And then he was pushing in, Cas guiding him with his hand.

Dean moved slowly at first, savored the intensity of being inside Cas, those strong thighs wrapped around him. When he’d planned on getting Cas into bed he’d had no idea it would feel this intimate. He tried to memorize the way Cas was staring at him, mouth agape. It was going to kill him to have to give this up.

“So…vigorous, huh?” he asked, checking in.

Cas looked at him with something akin to awe. “Yes, please.”

Dean started to move, his hips keeping pace with the pounding music as the album’s second side started to play. Cas, his hands braced against the head of the bed, was murmuring in Russian. Dean didn’t understand a word, but it sounded filthy.

“This what you had in mind?” Dean asked, his chest shining with sweat as he slammed his pelvis against Cas’ ass.

“I could take it harder,” Cas admitted, his voice rough.

Groaning, Dean wrapped his hands around Cas’ thighs and gave it his all, the headboard knocking solidly into the wall. Dean’s whole body felt alive, centered in on the hot grip of Cas’ body. He shifted his weight, looking in amazement at where their bodies joined, and suddenly he was pulling desperate gasps out of Cas with every thrust, driving him quickly to the edge of his self-control.

“Oh Cas. It’s…you’re…so perfect.” He gripped Cas’s dick in his lube-slick hand and squeezed.

“Dean!” Cas arched off the bed, driving himself hard into Dean’s fist, spilling across his stomach and chest. His irises were a thin ring of blue on black. He was one of the most beautiful sights Dean had ever seen.

Dean's muscles trembled as his own orgasm tore through him like a subway train. He pushed deep and clung to Cas, wishing the moment would never end.

* * *

 

“Damn.” Dean collapsed against a pillow, his chest rising and falling with heavy gasps. “We should’a done this a long time ago.”

Cas lay beside him, his glazed eyes staring at the ceiling. “Agreed. I was an idiot.”

Dean rolled onto his side and ran his fingertips along Cas’ cheekbone. “At least you’re pretty.” He tapped him playfully on the nose. “And good in bed.” Warmth filled his muscles, leaving him relaxed and sleepy.

“Was I okay?” Cas looked at him with big, anxious eyes and Dean had to laugh. He’d come so hard he could barely move his legs. It seemed like a good time to use a phrase the old Russian had taught him.

“Better than okay, _моя трутень_. Try mindblowingly great.”

Cas cracked a wide, gummy smile. “You just called me your _drone_.”

Dean mumbled a series of swear words in the language he knew best. “I meant _bee_. Like a pet name. You like bees, so I thought…” Dean shook his head. “Jeez Cas, I’m sorry. I’m screwing this all up.”

Cas looked thoughtful. “ _Пчёлка_ is feminine, so maybe whoever you spoke with didn’t think it appropriate for a man. But you can call me _Пчёлка_ all you want.”

“You’d make a damned pretty bee.” Dean was pretty sure his Russian effort couldn’t get any worse, and if any moment called for an endearing insult it was this one. “ _Жопа попа_.”

Cas laughed.

“Shit.” Dean covered his eyes with a hand. “What did I say this time?”

“I think you called me an ass-butt.”

Dean wrapped an arm around Cas and pulled him within kissing distance. “Close enough, I guess.”

* * *

 

Cas’ eyes watered as he watched the Winchesters put their duffels in the Impala. They say all good things must come to an end, but this ending was ripping his heart to shreds. Dean had delayed their departure as long as possible, but he needed to leave now if they were going to get to Sioux Falls before dark. Sam was already in the car but Dean lingered on the stoop.

“For the road. In case you get hungry.” Cas passed him a paper bag. He’d made them dinner, packed neatly into reusable containers.

“Thanks.” Dean smiled, glancing at his neck, and Cas touched the marks there self-consciously. The last four days had been incredible and Cas was glad he would have the visual reminders, even if they slowly faded. Dean gripped him in a bruising hug, his voice a whisper. “Gonna miss you.”

Cas clung just as tightly, trying to memorize Dean’s smell and the strength of his arms around him.

“I’m going to miss you too. You and Sam both.” It was achingly true. Without the brothers in his life, all he had was his work. And if he were honest, Sergeant Turner was the only coworker he could stand.

Dean slapped him on the shoulder. “If you’re ever in Sioux Falls, look me up. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Good.” Dean cleared his throat and schooled his features into a stern mask. He held up Crowley’s knife. “You sure about this? Could be plenty of demons still in Kansas City.”

Cas nodded. “It’ll be safer with you.” And he knew the world would be safer if Dean had it.

“Oh! Before I forget.” Cas pulled out his phone and took a picture, Dean in front of the Impala, and Sam smiling from the passenger seat. He wouldn’t have any trouble remembering the Winchesters but he wanted the photo anyhow.

Dean and Sam waved their goodbyes. Cas watched until the car was out of sight then went inside. There was a bottle of Jack Daniels calling to him.


	14. Chapter 14

The house was eerily quiet in the month since Dean and Sam had left, and Cas struggled against the urge to leave the radio or television on. His mother had taught him not to waste electricity, and a quiet house did make it easier to tell if someone—or something—waited to ambush him. But he missed the voices, footsteps, and tiny sounds of movement that made the space feel like home. Every room felt abandoned.

Cas’ bed had been a good size, but three nights of having Dean next to him had changed something, because now it felt wide and empty. He made a replacement-Dean out of pillows, which was silly, but his subconscious found it soothing. He delayed washing Dean’s scent from the sheets, and when he did finally stuff them into the washer, he kept Dean’s pillowcase out.

He came up with ways to avoid being home, starting with an evening jog, which became longer and longer. Time spent in his car carried its’ own brand of painful memories, chief among them that it was the first place Dean had touched and kissed him. He sometimes caught movement out of the corner of his right eye, and wished he could turn to find Dean beside him. Cas imagined him somehow zapping in from South Dakota and proposing they take in a movie at the drive-in.

* * *

 

Cas sat at his desk by the photocopier and finished the paperwork on his second undercover case, detailing the arrest in his careful handwriting. His colleagues still called him Jump Street, but it didn’t have an edge of insult now that he’d solved a triple homicide and followed it up by taking down a drug ring at the university. It had been an easy case, but it made the department look good. Cas believed his drugged out hippie persona had been very convincing. He already looked kind of dazed anyhow.

He kept an eye out for unofficial cases as well, and listened with interest when a man reported being attacked in his hotel room by “an invisible dude.” Cas’ colleagues had written the guy off as a drunk, but his story checked out. The hotel, an historic building, was haunted by the spirit of a writer who had lived there in the 1930s. Cas solved the problem with two hours at the city archives, a bag of salt, some lighter fluid, and an illegally borrowed backhoe. He had started digging up the body by hand, but discovered that a backhoe was fast and effective, and didn’t leave blisters all over his palms. He was seriously considering purchasing one of the smaller units, perhaps used.

Despite his success with the drug bust, work wasn’t all back-slapping and donuts. Since Crowley’s departure for points unknown, Campbell had been sulky and lashing out. Cas guessed that demonic crime lords didn’t provide their police informants with a pension.

“Nice hands, Kroos-neck,” Campbell bellowed across the break room. “Boyfriend move out?” The Sergeant made a masturbatory hand gesture in case anyone hadn’t gotten his joke.

“Yes. He did.” Cas took malicious glee in outing himself. “But I’m _handling_ it, thanks.” Cas thought that four days of sex was enough to count Dean as a boyfriend, even if his departure made him a _defacto_ ex.

“He admits it!” Campbell looked around for support, but his expression showed he hadn’t expected Cas’ deadpan acknowledgement. “You heard him!”

Cas shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less. He valued the truth, and the truth was that he had fallen for Dean. He supposed that made him… something, but choosing a label didn’t seem as urgent as remembering Dean’s lips on his neck. Cas wasn’t ashamed; not about the sex and not about how he felt. Campbell could go to hell.

“You sound jealous, Campbell.” Rufus helped himself to a crème-filled donut from a box on the table.

“Like hell!” Campbell growled. “Never catch me doing any of that homo shit.”

Rufus grinned. “Not getting caught ain’t the same as wouldn’t do it.”

Campbell flushed. “Wouldn’t do it, period. Never, no way, no how.”

Victor Henriksen, a new transfer, spoke up. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Cas hadn’t interacted much with Henriksen, but he and Rufus seemed to be coming to his rescue, directing the focus back onto Campbell. He supposed this was camaraderie. It felt nice.

“What’s that?” Campbell demanded of Henriksen. “Some kinda Shakespeare?”

Henriksen winked at Rufus. “And they told me you boys in Central were a bunch of meatheads.”

"Ow." Rufus mimed being stabbed in the chest. "Do we not bleed?" He dropped the act and turned to Cas. “What do you say, Krusnic? Are we meatheads?”

Cas smirked. “I’m just a cop.” He stuffed the donut into his mouth on the way back to his desk. With all the jogging he was doing, he was constantly hungry. He wiped the gritty sugar from his fingers and pulled the photo of the Winchesters from his wallet. He was doing that a lot too. Their absence was like a gnawing in his chest. He needed to stop this awful broken feeling, and given the arrests they’d made in the drug case, now was as good a time as any.

It was something he’d been thinking about since the Impala pulled out of his driveway. He’d even emailed Sheriff Hanscum to ask for her advice. She had referred to his crush as “super cute” and tried to comfort him with a sexual twist on “’Tis better to have loved and lost….” He appreciated the sentiment. But Castiel knew that one of his many flaws was a deep reluctance to accept defeat. This stubborn resistance to losing helped him to stumble to his feet again after being punched by Raphael when they were seven. It helped him to endure the words of classmates and teachers who made it clear that he didn’t belong in their class, their school, their country. It had helped him pass the entrance exams for the Academy, and to train and study hard enough to excel there. He smiled and shook his head. Sheriff Hanscum knew he wouldn’t want to lose. Especially not something this good.

He slipped the photo back into his wallet, pocketed it, and crossed the bullpen to knock on the door of Captain Zachariah’s office.

“Officer Krusnic! Come in. Good work on that drug sting.” Zachariah beamed at him.

“Thank-you.”

“Did you see the article? It’s one for the scrapbooks.” _The Courier_ had carried a positive story about the bust, and the Captain had received a congratulatory call from someone on the mayor’s staff. His boss would never be in a friendlier mood.

“I’m glad you’re pleased with my work,” Cas said, “because I have a request.”

Zachariah looked smugly magnanimous. “Better desk assignment? Not a raise, I hope!” He chuckled at his joke.

“I want to lateral to South Dakota.”

“You want to move?” The Captain’s brows met across his pointy nose. “Whatever for?” He looked worried. “They didn’t offer you more money, did they?”

“Nothing like that. I’d like to be closer to my family.” If the Captain had bothered to talk to him at all he might have known that his only blood relative was in Ohio.

“Oh.” Captain Zachariah looked annoyed for a moment before his smile returned. “Well, I guess that’s fine.” He let out a cheerful huff. “It’s not like you have any seniority or rank to lose, is it?”

“Can I count on you for a recommendation?” Cas asked. It would help ease the way with Sioux Falls.

The Captain nodded. “I’ll get Sergeant Turner to draft it. You’ll have it in hand this week.”

Cas knew he should have been worried about this plan. He should have been worried about having two moves on his resume in as many years. He should have been worried about who was going to protect Kansas City from the supernatural once he left. He should have been worried about leaving his job and moving to another state to pursue his seventeen-year-old crush. But he wasn’t. The weight dragging him down had lifted, leaving him feeling as if he could fly. 

* * *

 

Dean thought about Cas a lot lately. There were the usual times to think about him. It was only natural to dwell on the hottest person you’d seen naked when taking care of business. But Dean also thought about Cas when he was driving to the store, eating breakfast with Sam and Bobby, or stabbing a demon in the chest. That last one really made him think about Cas, and the way his eyes had smiled when he gave him the knife. Dean had started dozens of text messages he didn’t send. Everything was too sappy (“Miss your bedhead” being the frontrunner), too impersonal (“FYI: iron burns demons“), or too desperate (“Visit sometime?”). Twice he’d started to tell Bobby about Cas, but chickened out at the last moment.

Three weeks into their stay at Bobby’s, two hunters named Walt and Roy had stopped in, on their way to a job in Wyoming. It was nice enough, drinking and talking shop. But Dean wondered if they’d be as friendly if they knew about him and Cas. Would be still be 'the Dean Winchester who took out a vamp nest by himself'? Or would be suddenly become the 'Dean Winchester who can suck a golfball through twenty feet of garden hose'? Hell, would Bobby even want him staying at his place? Dean wasn’t sure. His dad had been opinionated on the subject and John and Bobby had been friends a long time.

So he wavered between 'Gotta tell Bobby’ and 'Can’t tell Bobby,’ while daydreaming about driving with Cas in the Impala. What they’d had, especially at the end, had been amazing. It wasn’t your average romance, but Cas had said that something didn’t have to be normal to be good. Dean had given that idea a lot of thought.

While Sam was checking out the bookstore Dean moved through the tight aisles of the hardware, picking up essentials like rock salt, ammo, and thread. His attention wandered between why Ellen and Pamela stocked so much rock salt (did they know about hunting or just know this town used a helluva lotta rocksalt?), and watching the easy way they worked together.

Ellen climbed a stepladder to restock some caulking, and Pamela gave her ass a playful swat as she went by.

“You mind your hands, girl,” Ellen said, cheerfully. “This is a family business.”

“Appreciating a fine ass runs in my family,” Pamela protested. He liked how they joked around. He liked how Pamela brought Ellen tea and how Ellen insisted she eat a proper lunch.

Dean felt happy for them, with a side of jealousy. He wanted someone he could work beside, joke with, eat with, and fall exhausted into bed with. Someone who’d stitch up his back and rub antibiotic ointment into his cuts. Someone he could tell the truth to when they asked how his day went. It didn’t take a genius to know he’d already found that in Cas.

It wasn’t as chick-flick as it sounded, he told himself. It was only logical, responsible, practical. Sam was great, but Dean didn’t want him becoming a hunter. That might have been their father’s dream—both Winchester boys, carrying on his legacy—but Dean wanted Sam doing something safe, like being a doctor or a lawyer. Having one of those in the family could be handy for a hunter. Bobby was like a dad to both of them, but he was getting on up years and shouldn’t have to be out digging graves and torching bodies. If Dean missed Cas it was because he’d make a good hunter with a bit of training. And he missed the sex. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten by with one-night-stands. Now that he knew what he was missing, he missed it. Only logical.

“Ready to go?” He turned to find Sam standing next to him and realized he must’ve gotten lost in thought. He hadn’t even heard the bell over the door ring.

“Yeah. I’m good.” He blinked. Sam was getting taller every day. He carried his items to the counter, Sam following.

Ellen rang up the sale and Dean paid with one of the good credit cards. He passed two bags of rocksalt to Sam. “Put these in the car, would you? I’ll catch up in a few.” He watched Sam go then turned to Ellen “Ma’am, mind if I ask you a question?”

Ellen rolled her eyes. “We don’t give credit and we ain’t interested in a threesome.”

Dean was taken aback. They were good-looking women, but his head hadn’t even gone there, he’d been so preoccupied with Cas. And then he realized that they were two good-looking women, and his head hadn’t even gone there. Shit. He must be nuts about the guy. Totally chick-flick.

“What?” Ellen smirked at his stunned look. “I seen you looking at us, boy. I ain’t blind.”

“It’s not that.” Dean chuckled. “It’s _really_ not that.” He rubbed a hand on his neck. “I was wonderin’ if you have any trouble on account of—”He gestured between them, hesitant to continue, and unsure what words he’d use if he did. He usually thought of them as ‘the lesbians,’ but he supposed Pamela might be bi, or Ellen might. Or they both might. What did you call a couple like that? Were he and Cas like that? Cas had mentioned an ex-girlfriend. Did it count as gay if they both liked women? Dean felt lost, like there were rules he needed to know, but didn’t. Ellen’s voice cut into his mile-a-minute thoughts.

“Nothing we can’t handle. I got a shotgun and a mean right hook. Why?” She lifted her chin and looked hard at Dean in case he got any ideas.

Pamela slid in close, touching her girlfriend’s hip. “I think he’s asking for _him_ , sweetie,” she said.

Ellen looked less hostile now. “That so?”

Dean did a quick scan of the store. It was empty.

“Yeah.”

Pamela shook her head. “People have been fine with us. But it might not be the same for you.”

Dean nodded, feeling both better and worse. “Yeah. That’s what I figured. Thanks.” He took his ammo and thread, and headed toward the door.

“Hey kid!” Ellen called after him, her voice unexpectedly maternal. “You need to talk, you know where we are.”

Dean gave her a grateful nod as he left, feeling partly like a member of some secret mystical brotherhood and partly like he'd just joined the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants.

* * *

 

When Castiel entered the Connor Beverly Behavioral Medicine Center in Ohio, his mother was in a rocking chair, She was wearing a pink dressing gown and pale blue pajamas, her once blonde hair gone white. Her nurses assured him she was having a good day, and as he entered the room he could tell that they were right.

“ _Здравствуй, мама_.” He smiled and moved to sit beside her. They usually talked in Russian, as it was easiest for her to remember, and they did so now. “Do you know who I am?”

She smiled at him. “Bunny.” Castiel relaxed. This _was_ a good day. Her use of his nickname meant that she recognized him as significant. They didn’t always get that. When she’s first come to live at the Center she’d still recognized him by name. Later, she’d sometimes ask, “Have you seen _Кастиэль?_ _”_ One time, she thought he was her father. Eventually he’d just be a stranger to her, or she might even find his presence upsetting. It broke his heart, so he pushed it to the back of his mind and did his usual life update.

“Work is going well.” He sat nearby and she let him hold her hand. “I’m transferring to South Dakota to work for the Sherriff in Sioux Falls. It’s smaller than Kansas City, but I’m looking forward to the move. I have friends there.”

He looked into her eyes. She was relaxed, enjoying his presence, even if she didn’t know him. “One friend in particular, actually.” He looked out the window at where a nurse was helping a man with a walker stroll around the garden. “My last relationship didn’t go so well, but I think you’d like Dean.” Cas smiled. “He’s a hero.”

* * *

 

The sound of gravel crunching under the wheels of a vehicle made Sam’s head perk up, but Dean stayed focused on the machete he was sharpening. Bobby was upstairs, and what that man missed weren’t worth seeing. Besides, those ghouls in Harrisburg weren’t gonna decapitate themselves.

“Dean!” Sam sounded urgent, but not frightened. Dean strode to the door, gripping the machete. The sight of a 1978 Lincoln Continental made his breath halt. He told himself not to get excited—lots of people owned cars like that—but the second Cas stepped out, Dean set his weapon on a shelf and rushed to meet him.

He moved in for a hug, then hesitated. Sensing his caution, Cas shook hands instead. They stared into each others’ eyes, one shift in posture away from moving in for a kiss. It probably looked suspicious as hell, Dean thought, stepping back. He should’ve just hugged the guy.

“Hey!” His cheeks ached with the grin he couldn’t keep off his face. “What brings you out our way? Everything all right?”

Cas got that thoughtful look that Dean loved. “Everything is all right now.”

“Come in. Have a drink.”

“I’ll make coffee,” Sam hurried ahead to the kitchen. Bobby had let him make breakfast a few times and now Sam acted like he was Julia Child.

“I put it in Dean’s mug for you,” Sam offered. Cas took the hand-painted pink cup that read ‘Princess.’

“Dean’s mug?” Cas raised an eyebrow, looking curious as hell.

“Aw, jeezus, Sammy” Dean opened the cupboard, his eyes darting around. “Let me getcha a different mug. That one’s a joke from Bobby.”

“Ain’t nothing jokey ‘bout it,” Bobby said dryly, entering the room. “Took me half an afternoon at Color Me Mine.”

“Relax,” Cas assured Dean. “I like it.”

Bobby poured himself a drink. “Man knows great art when he sees it.”

‘So Cas, what brings you to Sioux Falls?” Sam asked. “Are you on a case?”

“I’m working for Sheriff Mills.”

“Jody?” Bobby’s face softened. “She’s a peach.“

Cas nodded. “Not much gets by her.”

Dean knew he was being discrete, so he made a point of letting Cas know he could speak freely with Bobby present. On the monster front, anyhow.

“She helped us with a zombie situation a while back,” he said. “Cool head. Good in a crisis.”

Cas blanched. “Zombies are real too?”

Bobby nodded consolingly. “Sorry to burst yer bubble.”

“You don’t run into them as much as you’d think,” Dean assured him. “It’s not like on tv.”

“Where are you staying?” Sam asked.

Dean could’ve kissed the little beanpole. If he’d asked it would’ve reeked of desperation, but Sam was just a curious kid. Dean braced for the answer. Maybe Cas was staying with someone, maybe dating them. His heart thumped wildly.

“I bought a place by the golf course on Russell.”

Bought. Bought as in _own_. As in staying, maybe permanently.

Cas gulped from the Princess mug. “You should swing by for dinner.” He glanced at Sam and Bobby. “All of you.”

“Can ya cook worth a damn?” Bobby asked.

“He’s not bad.” Dean relaxed. “Dinner sounds great, Cas.”

***

Dean was being neighborly, he told himself as he walked across the yard and up onto the porch of Cas’ new house. He’d brought him a housewarming present, a bag of goofer dust, and couldn’t wait to show him how to use it. So maybe he hadn’t told Bobby or Sam where he was going or when he’d be back. It didn’t mean he was expecting anything. Cas might have plenty of reasons for moving across two state lines that had nothing to do with Dean.

Cas met him at the door. “Hello Dean. This is a nice surprise.”

“Thought I’d check out your new digs.”

Cas extended a hand.

“Your arm, please.” Before Dean had left Kansas City he’d written out instructions for creating a guest-testing kit handed down from his grandfather, Henry Winchester: holy water, a silver knife, and borax. Nobody was sure what the borax was for, but someday something would react to it. Cas tested him now, and Dean returned the favor.

Their humanity confirmed, they gripped each other in a tight hug and then Cas led Dean on a tour of the house. Dean drifted closer when they walked, and Cas looked at him longer each time before explaining how he’d salted-lined the windows or drawn a devil’s trap at key doorways.

Dean felt odd. The last time they’d been alone together they’d been naked. Now he was nervous, wanting to shove his hand down Cas’ pants but instead commenting on how the old green chair looked good in the new living room.

The tour reached the bedroom and Dean bumped against Cas in a way that asked rather than demanded. He didn’t know the rules here. Did they take up where they left off, or did they return to Go?

“And this is my room. I put the—“

Dean looked at the room, suddenly realizing why Cas had stopped talking. There, on what had been his side of the bed, lay a row of pillows. Dean strode in and looked down at them.

“Is…is this me?” The amusement was audible in his voice, and he was sure that Cas could hear it, despite hiding his face in his hands and tucking both into the door jamb.

“Nothing I’ve tried so far has been an adequate placeholder.” His words were mumbled, but Dean picked them out.

Dean moved in close and put a hand on Cas’ lower back.

“Cas,” Dean’s voice was straining, “can we uh…?” He ran his hand up Cas’ back and into his soft hair.

“Yes.” Cas made a high, needy sound and turned to face him. “Definitely yes.”

They pushed into the bedroom, lips meeting in frantic kisses as they stripped, leaving a trail of clothes to the bed. Dean felt a rush as Cas dropped to his knees in front of him and begin nuzzling at his balls. Okay, so they were definitely taking up where they’d left off, which meant that maybe Cas and him were…what? Boyfriends? Lovers? Fuckbuddies? Dean wasn’t sure.

“Cas, are you seeing anybody? Other than pillow-me, I mean.” Making it into a joke helped get the question out. There was something kind of ridiculous, he supposed, in having your former sex worker boyfriend ask you not to see other people, but he was gonna do it anyway.

Cas looked up at him, eyes squinting in confusion. “No. Should I be?”

“I’d rather we kept this exclusive if that’s cool with you.”

Cas licked his palm and started a slow pump that was just the perfect side of rough.

“You’re the only one I want, Dean. Just you.”

Before he could respond Cas brought his mouth down and Dean’s mind went into overdrive, pulse racing and balls tightening. He gripped Cas’s hair and shoulder as he came, his knees fighting the urge to buckle. Damn, Cas had a perfect mouth on him. Dean pulled him up and backward, onto the bed, kicking his replacement pillows to the floor. They kissed, and kissed and kissed, Dean tasting himself on Cas’ tongue, and loving it.

He pulled back, looking at Cas’ reddened lips, pale skin, and messy hair. He was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen, and he wanted to have him every way possible. Sex, feelings, work, family. He could have the whole thing with Cas.

“Wanna help me kill some ghouls this week?”

Cas smiled. “You say the most romantic things, Dean Winchester.”

Dean ran his fingertips across Cas’ cheekbone. “That a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

“Awesome.” Dean brought their mouths together again, one hand hurrying to jack Cas in a delicious slide of soft skin over hard flesh.

The angle was difficult, but Dean kept up a steady pace, his forearm burning, and Cas whimpering against his mouth. Then, when he sensed Cas was about to lose it, Dean slowed. As much as he liked seeing Cas go off in his hand, he had other plans. He shifted his kissing to Cas’ neck, then worked his way down.

Having Cas in his mouth was one of his favorite things. He loved the heavy warmth on his tongue, leaking that sharp taste that reminded Dean of metal zipper pulls in the winter. He loved the breathy, needy sounds Cas made above him, and the way his stomach muscles quivered just before he came.

But the talking, the talking was the best part. Dean hummed and Cas’ constant soft mutterings turned into desperate begging, some in English and some in Russian. And then, that beautiful moment where all Cas could say was ‘yes,’ and Dean’s name.

 _“Д_ _а_ _Декан_ _, да, да!”_ Cas’ hips arched off the bed like a spring and Dean gripped them, burying his nose into soft curls as Cas lost control.

Dean collapsed onto his back on the mattress. His lips were tingling from the friction, he had a sore, cramped hand and he was pretty sure he’d pulled a jaw muscle. It was perfect. He had to find a way to keep this.

“Damn, I love…” _It’s too soon_. _Don’t say it yet_. “…that.”

Cas laughed. “I love _that_ too.” Was Cas saying he gave good head? Or did he know that Dean meant something more? There was one way to find out.

“So,” Dean said when the silence had grown too long, “what really brought you to Sioux Falls?”

Cas rolled his eyes. “I met a guy.”

Dean’s goofy smile got bigger. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Tall, dark, heroic. Amazing in bed.” Cas nuzzled against him, warm and solid.

“Small world. I know a guy like that too.” Dean closed his eyes for a moment, just to rest. When he opened them again the red glow of the digital clock read 12:46 am.

“Shit! I gotta go.” Dean shook Cas gently and broke the news. “I better get back to Bobby’s. I am way late.

Cas sat up, his hair a crazy mess. “Come back anytime.”

“Call you tonight? We’ll make a plan to go hunting together.” Dean kissed him goodbye and hurried to the Impala. Driving home took moments, but sneaking into a building with as much gnostic security as Bobby’s house took some doing. Eventually Dean wriggled through a basement window, walked face-first into a spiders web and gave himself the willies, tip-toed up the creaky stairs, and emerged to find Bobby at the kitchen table.

“Nice night for a break-in.” Bobby passed him a mug of hot chocolate.

“Hey.” Dean brushed cobwebs from his hair. “Just uh, couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d do a security check.” He jabbed a thumb toward the stairs. “You know you had a window unlocked down there?”

“Well ya had to get back in somehow and I ain’t givin’ you idjits a key ‘til you learn to keep descent hours.”

“Fine. I was out…carousing,” Dean said. “Happy?”

“Should I be?”

Dean had no intention of being subjected to an interrogation by Bobby. He chugged the hot chocolate, which was warm and soothing on his sex-raw throat. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, “I’m going up to bed.”

“That boyfriend of your is welcome here anytime. Just so you know.”

“Boyfriend?” Dean froze in the doorway to the living room.

“Oh please. I know a man in love when I see one.”

Dean glanced back at Bobby. He didn’t see disgust, or disappointment, or scorn, just the same gruff old bastard he loved like a father.

Dean chuckled. “I guess you do.” He owed Sam an apology. The little shit had been right.

“But if you’re going to be out at all hours I expect to start seeing him at family dinners from now on. We clear?” Bobby was using the same ‘Layin’ down the law’ voice he’d used when he’d told Dean not to practice with the machete inside the house.

“Yes, sir. Loud and clear.” Dean didn’t envy Cas the going over he was going to get from Bobby. When that guy vetted someone he covered all his bases. It might even be fun.

“Good. Now git to bed, and don’t wake your brother Growin' boys need sleep.”

Dean walked upstairs, looking forward to tomorrow.

[The End]


End file.
